


His Little Songbird

by Meadowlark27



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Maid!Katniss, Prince!Peeta, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadowlark27/pseuds/Meadowlark27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a young prince falls in love with a maid he never should've met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he sees her, she's five years old. Ms. Everdeen's been teaching her how to fold laundry – it's one of the many duties she'll be responsible for as she, like her mother before her, is raised as a palace maid – and she'd be rather good at it if she didn't find the entire thing so damn pointless. What could a single family of five possibly need with seventy-nine towels?

Still, it's what's required of her, so her stubborn nature falls flat to her learned sense of subservience. But she does what she can to make the time crawl by a little more quickly, particularly by singing along to the mechanical whir that shimmers through the utility room. For the most part, her voice is soft enough that the motorized sounds drown her out, but with certain pitches, the pureness of her tone rises above the clamor, gently wafting through the corridor beyond the slightly ajar door.

At the time, she doesn't know that the youngest prince of the palace happens to be tip-toeing his way down that corridor, curiously exploring the small annex of the palace which his parents (particularly the Queen) forbade him to ever enter.

At the time, she doesn't know that over the noise, her voice bleeds out through the door and slithers around his body, making goose bumps pop up all over every inch of his flesh.

At the time, she doesn't know that this draws the seven-year-old prince closer, prompting him to peek through the door frame and see an olive-skinned girl with two chocolate-colored braids rippling over her shoulders, singing as she folds one of his family's seventy-nine towels.

At the time, she doesn't know that a blush is flowering under his chubby, dimpled cheeks.

And, at the time, she has absolutely no idea that the youngest prince is, unquestionably, a total goner.

* * *

Although she's forbidden to ever interact with the princes, Katniss knows nearly everything about them. The oldest is stone-faced but incredibly brave, proving to be the best sword-fighter in the kingdom. But, beyond his stern exterior, he loves to dance – Katniss has stumbled upon him several times waltzing to classical melodies that float from his record player, always by himself. Maybe it's why he's such a talented sword-fighter; his footwork is absolutely phenomenal.

The second prince is the tallest and most colorful of the trio. With his overblown confidence, he's always the first to crack jokes that make his mother groan, and always the last to finish his sautéed asparagus. But he's incredibly charismatic when he wants to be, magically able to woo any palace guests in under five minutes.

The youngest prince, however, is Katniss's favorite, although she doesn't know why. Maybe it's because he's a beautiful painter, spending nearly half of his days penned up in his bedchamber, propped by the window as he gently strokes a canvas with a brush. Maybe it's because he's clearly the kindest of the royal family, never uttering a bad word about anyone, not even the mother who criticizes his every move. Maybe it's because he's so quirky, needing his window to be open before he can fall asleep, and refusing to leave his room without double-knotting his laces first. Maybe it's because of his smile alone, which could stop the tide and instigate world peace in its dimpled perfection. Maybe it's his impossibly compassionate eyes, so blue and wide and genuine.

Or, maybe it's the bread. Definitely,  _definitely,_  it has to do with the bread.

* * *

Her father is killed when she's eleven. In a mining accident, nonetheless.

It kills her mother, too. Not physically, at first, but her mind detonates like a hand grenade until all that's left is an empty shell of a woman who can't even look at her only daughter.

Being raised as a palace maid was never luxurious, but it was  _enough_. Now, with her father dead and her mother so catatonic that she's permanently dismissed from the palace, Katniss's tiny paychecks aren't enough to sustain her, and she begins to wither. Her strength fades as her energy falters, and each chore becomes too arduous for her skeletal frame. One afternoon, when she's turning down the youngest prince's bed, the tiny peppered spots behind her lids flare to life, the world under her feet spinning faster and faster until she collapses.

When she wakes, the young prince is crouched on the floor beside her, a burned loaf of whole-grain bread propped in his hands.

"You're sick," he says, his voice so gentle that she can't do anything but trust him.

She tries to sit, but she can't muster the strength. He slips his hand under her neck, holding up her head.

"Here. Eat this." He tucks the bread in her hands, letting her feed herself.

Although the charred flavor sticks in her mouth for days, the bread is the only reason she made it. The significance of the youngest prince's charity dawns on her more and more as each day passes. She wouldn't have survived had he not snuck the bread up to her. She wouldn't have survived had he not waited until she could sit up on her own again. She wouldn't have survived had he not fetched her water when she couldn't even swallow in effort to speak. She wouldn't have survived had he not done a good deed for which he was rewarded by a vicious tongue-lashing from his mother and a day without food.

But she survived that day, and because of that, she was able to find the motivation to carry herself through the days after.

It was definitely the bread.

* * *

She's fourteen years old when he finally speaks to her again.

Her task for the afternoon is to clean the windows in the princes' bedchambers. Because it's the first nice spring day of the year, the King encouraged the princes to indulge in outdoor activities, so Katniss expects to be alone. In the first two rooms, she is.

But not in the youngest prince's.

For good measure, she raps on the door three times before entering, and nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees the boy sitting on the bed, his thick fingers ash-colored from graphite stains as he works away on a sketchpad.

Her hand flies to her chest, and she coughs. "I—I'm sorry, Your Highness."

He throws a casual smile her way before focusing again on his sketchpad. "You have nothing to apologize for."

She clutches the bucket of soapy water in her hand, taking a shaky step inward. "If you don't mind, I'm going to—well, I've been sent to wash your windows."

He quirks an eyebrow at her, and then motions toward the open screen. "By all means."

She hopes he hasn't noticed the wildly embarrassing blush in her cheeks as she shuffles across his bedroom, depositing her bucket at the base of the window.

Halfway through her wipe-down of the first pane, the abrupt sound of his voice nearly gives her a heart attack.

"Do you still like to sing?"

It feels like someone's bayonetted her aorta with an icicle. She freezes on the spot, the sopping rag plunging to the floor with a sickening sound. Keeping her eyes pinned to a dirty streak on the glass in front of her, she remains cemented in place, too afraid to turn around.

" _What_?"

She hears him shift slightly on the bed. "I'm sorry. I just…" She hears him swallow. "I heard you sing. Once. I was six or seven, maybe."

She manages to pivot – slowly of course – and when her eyes fall on him, she finds that his face is just as crimson as hers.

"You heard me sing?"

His eyes fall to his lap, and he nods faintly.

"Yes." And then, his focus flits back up to hers, the striking blue carving into her steely grey until her breath entirely evaporates from her lungs.

He says quietly, "It was beautiful."

* * *

"Katniss," he greets gently, his tongue curling around the  _t_  in her name as if he's savoring the taste of those two syllables.

Her heart parkours against her ribcage.  _How did he figure out what her name was? Or, more importantly, why would he even care? She's a maid. Just a maid._

Of the billion questions spooling in her head, all that comes out is:

"Don't call me that."

Instead of being startled by her brusqueness, he only smiles amusedly, leaning against the countertop piled with the dirty laundry Katniss should be folding right now. "Then what am I to call you? Miss? Ma'am? Dear? My little songbird?"

" _Your Highness!_ " she hisses.

"'My little songbird' it is," he chuckles, and without warning, he boldly reaches across the space between them, tucking a curl that's escaped from her braid behind her ear. She wants to flinch away, but she's so awed by the notion that the young prince is touching her, talking to her, and  _potentially flirting with her_  that she's frozen in place.

He's so beautiful, this boy. Which is something she's known for quite some time, but it's even more apparent now as he stands a foot away from her in the utility room that he's banned from being in. The number of times they've interacted could be counted on Katniss's fingers, and even in those rare instances, the conversation wasn't exactly flourishing. Why is he risking so much to speak to a substandard maid?

She doesn't have the opportunity to ask, however, because suddenly he's shuffling next to her, digging his hands in the mound of fabric piled on the countertop.

"I can help you fold laundry." He yanks out a sheet and whips it in the air, awkwardly trying to gain a secure grasp on the edges.

Before he can get too cozy, though, she grapples the trim, trying to tug it away from him. "Pardon me, sir, but I can't let you do this."

The corner of his beautiful mouth quirks up. "And why is that, my little songbird?"

She ignores the way her stomach tangoes to the sound of his pet name. "You're the—the  _prince!_  You can't just…  _help!_ "

He shrugs casually. "Why not?"

But she doesn't let go of the sheet. She tries to rip it from his grasp, but he doesn't relent; instead, he slips one hand from the trim to her wrist, his skin feeling like fire and heaven against hers.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, her voice cracking on the last word.

She feels his hand pulse on hers.

"I just want to spend some time with you, Katniss."

* * *

What she should've never let happen in the first place becomes a customary mid-morning pastime for her and the young prince, who gently reminds her almost every day to stop calling him the young prince, and to start calling him  _Peeta_. It takes her several weeks to get used to his name on her tongue, although she must admit to enjoying the texture of it bouncing on her lips whenever they clown around in the palace basement together.

Nearly every day, he joins her in the utility room while she's folding the laundry she's responsible for. He comes after the other maids have left to chip away at their daily chores, because this way, he can be alone with her. It's easier like this, they decide. Peeta's mother would mobilize the kingdom's troops if she learned he was fraternizing with a  _maid_ , of all people.

Even with the risk hanging like a storm cloud over their heads, though, Peeta still refuses to ditch his time with her. It isn't much – maybe a half hour, or so – but he seems to relish every moment of it, as unfathomable as that is to her. Their mornings together usually begin with innocent fabric-folding, but most of the time, they spiral into something much more off-the-cuff, such as Peeta swathing Katniss in a coverlet and rolling her up like a burrito. Or pitching blanket forts in between the counters. Or boogying around the room with sheets draped over their heads, pretending to be ghosts.

Regardless of the exact schematic, Katniss finds that she actually enjoys these moments with Peeta, because when it's just the two of them, he doesn't seem like a prince at all. And she doesn't feel like a maid. Together, they can act like the kids they truly are. They find some common ground in both being teenagers deprived of healthy childhoods in entirely different ways, but who both need each other to stay anchored to what's important.

One day, when they're sorting the towels together, he asks her if she can sing for him again.

"Please, Katniss. It's been too long."

She plays with the end of her braid, avoiding his eyes. "Exactly. I don't even remember if I know how."

He snorts, bumping her hip with his. "C'mon, my little songbird. I know you have it in you."

It takes a surfeit of deep breaths and twice the courage she knew she had, but as Peeta's fingers graze over the back of her trembling hand, she finally surrenders.

* * *

One of the other maids, Bristol, falls ill one day, and so her duties have to be rationed out to the other maids until she recovers. Enobaria is assigned to clean the bathtubs. Wiress has to polish the oldest prince's swords.

Katniss, by some odd twist of fate, is sent to prepare the youngest prince for bed.

Huddled in the dark corridor, she timidly knocks on Peeta's door, unsure of exactly what these tasks will entail. At least it's  _him_ , and not one of his brothers; she trusts he'll be forgiving and help her figure out what to do.

Still, her nerve endings pulse angrily under each inch of her skin, and when his gentle voice calls out, "Come in," it does nothing but fuel her anxiety.

She slips into his bedchamber, flattening her back against the door as she scans the room, her focus falling on the broad-shouldered figure by the window. Her aggressively pounding heart flies straight up into her throat as she takes in his shirtless form, his porcelain skin stretched beautifully over the corded muscles defining his back and arms. Dear lord. The kid's only seventeen – two years older than her meagre fifteen.

The moonlight falls on him in a way that illuminates his entire body, painting him more as a divinity than a teenage boy, and maybe  _that's_  what makes heat rip through every capillary bed beneath her flesh. She's always thought the boy was attractive, especially once she flowered into adolescence and bypassed the stage of thinking all guys had cooties. But this,  _this_ , is an entirely different matter.

Wait. No, she can't think this. She's a maid. He's a  _prince_. Granted, he's not the oldest, so it's not like he's about to inherit the throne in the next twenty years, but he's still the riches to her rags. He's not only out of her league. They aren't even playing the same damn sport.

With pink cheeks and sweaty palms, she folds her arms over her chest and clears her throat.

He begins to pivot. "My apologies, Miss, but I don't believe I'll be going to bed for—"

But when he sees that it's Katniss, his eyes grow wide, and he jolts a little in surprise.

"Well. You're not Bristol."

Katniss scratches her elbow and stares at the intricate swirl patterns of his rug. "She's sick."

"Ah."

"So, I've been sent to fulfill her duties."

He releases something of an amused snort; her eyes flit up to his, her eyebrows knitting together as he takes a step closer. "I'm seventeen years old, and they still think I need a nanny to tuck me in."

Embarrassment curdles in her stomach, her face adopting a darker shade of scarlet. "Oh. I—I'm sorry. I can just go—"

"Wait!" he blurts suddenly, reaching out his hands as if they might have a magnetic pull that'll haul her in. "I mean, Bristol usually doesn't do much beyond turning down the bed and cracking open the window if I haven't already. So, I—I don't really have anything for you to do. But you can stay." He swallows hard. "If you wish, I mean."

She tries to keep her eyes locked on either his or on the patterned carpet, but they seem to be drawn to the bare expanse of his chest. Since when does her throat feel so dry?

"Yeah. I—I'll stay."

* * *

Katniss wakes to the cozy feeling of sunlight glazing her skin, which is an entirely foreign sensation, having been raised in the lower-level maid quarters. She blinks herself into consciousness, the heat from the rays so delicious and snug that she almost falls back to sleep. That is, until she pinpoints a different kind of heat radiating all over her back. It's a lot heavier, but more welcoming, and for a brief moment she tries to bury herself in it.

Until she realizes exactly what it is.

She jolts, tearing away from the source and toppling off the bed, taking a few sheets and a feather pillow down with her. Above her, the mattress rustles, and over the top pokes out a head of errant curls and startled blue eyes.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks, his voice crackling with sleep.

"What the hell am I doing here?" she nearly screeches, her body thrumming with mortification as her stomach hollows out and bubbles with nausea.

She fell asleep on Peeta's bed. On  _the prince's_  bed. She's a maid, nothing more, and she spent the night in the room of one of the five most important people in the all of Panem. She could be fired for this. She could be thrown in jail for this. Perhaps she could even be hanged for this.

She scrambles to her feet, the sheets tangling around her ankles and hampering her balance. She clutches the edge of the mattress for support, but while doing so, Peeta's thick hands grasp her waist to steady her.

Lord, he's shirtless.  _Shirtless_.  _She slept with a boy and he didn't have his shirt on_.  _Oh my god_. She thinks she's about to vomit. Or faint. Or vomit, and then faint, and then fling herself from the window.

"Katniss, you look a little green," he comments, his eyes drowning with concern, just like she's drowning in her own self-hatred. How fun.

"I can't be here," she gasps, her head spinning. She tries to pull herself away, but he has an iron grasp on her hips, and he anchors her to the edge of the bed. "Peeta, please. I—I messed up. I didn't mean to stay here... you have to know that. I'm so  _sorry_."

He frowns. "Sorry? Katniss, don't  _apologize_."

How could he say that? She breached every segment of her code of conduct by sleeping with him. Granted, it was an accident – they'd been talking until the dark hours of the morning, and she'd only meant to lay her head on his pillow for a moment – but it's still forbidden. His mother would have her roped up in a tree for this if she knew.

_Oh god. What if she finds out?_

"Please don't tell your mother," she begs, her voice a choked whisper. "I could lose this job, I could lose everything—"

"I would  _never_  tell her." His tone is as gentle as his eyes, and he pulls her back to the bed, sitting her carefully on the mattress. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you. It was just so late, and you looked exhausted, and  _I_  was exhausted, and... It isn't a big deal. It can be our little secret, alright?"

Katniss palms her forehead, pushing the sticky beads of sweat up into her hairline.

But suddenly, he's leaning closer, giving her a soft smile as he takes her hand.

"I slept well," he tells her quietly. " _Really_  well."

Even with the mortification and the self-disgust swelling in her lungs, she still manages a small but genuine grin.

"Me, too."

* * *

He comes down to the laundry room as he always does, and helps her sort the warmed towels and sheets as he always does, and cracks moderately-decent jokes as he always does, and teases her, and tickles her, and calls her his  _little songbird_  as he always does.

Nothing has changed. She doesn't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, or even if it's what she wanted. She supposes it's what she _should_  want – for their accidental communal slumber to not throw off their dynamic – but something in her stomach feels sunken in.

She realizes she's being ridiculous when she fantasizes about what it could mean for them. It shouldn't mean  _anything_. He's a prince, and she's an insignificant servant girl. He's absolutely beautiful, and she's plain. He's got potential. She's withering every day.

Still, he seems to want to be her friend, even if their friendship is outwardly dysfunctional. She's clueless as to what he could possibly see in her, but there must be something. Maybe it's her pathetic lack of standards – perhaps he likes passing time with her because she doesn't expect much from him. Or anything, really. It must be nice getting to be himself for once.

He confirms this one morning, after they've dismantled their blanket fort of the day and sorted out the laundry onto the carts. She's propped herself up on the counter, with Peeta shifting in between her knees, his palms flattened against the steel surface on either side of her waist.

"I don't have to put on a show for you," he tells her, peeking out from underneath his canopy of thick, golden lashes. "I love that. It all feels so…  _real_."

She gives him a soft smile, one that masks the celebratory cartwheels her stomach does in response. But the cartwheels turn to violent turbines when his palms move from the countertop to her hips, the heat in his hands radiating through her uniform and freckling her skin with goose bumps. He's leaning in now, his lips just inches from hers, and his breath sweeps over her face in a way that makes her shiver. There's something intoxicating about his scent, which is a fragrant mixture of cinnamon, sandalwood, and fabric softener (or maybe that's the laundry room) – but whatever it is, it annihilates her and draws her in. Their noses brush, and her eyes flutter closed just as—

"Katniss?"

They jolt away from each other, heated faces whipping toward the doorway. Annie, another maid around Katniss's age, stands in the threshold with a bucket of charcoal-colored water clenched in her hands.

Peeta coughs awkwardly, and when Katniss looks his way, she notices the violent blush flowering under his cheeks. It must match hers pretty well. "I should—I have to go," he stammers, and before Katniss can even digest the situation, the door seals behind him.

Without looking at her, Katniss can feel Annie's eyes drilling into her skin. Annie inhales. Then exhales. Then inhales again. "What were you two…"

Katniss rubs her face, hoping it'll magically erase some of the color. "Nothing. He was just—" Well, there's no good explanation, so she lets her voice taper off as she accepts how incriminating her own silence must be.

Annie slides the bucket onto the floor, rounding the countertop as Katniss hops onto the floor. "That's the prince."

"I know."

"And he was… helping you with laundry?"

"I know."

"And he… he was about to  _kiss_  you?"

Banging her own head against the stainless steel countertop suddenly sounds remarkably appealing.

Annie takes a step closer, but cautiously, as if Katniss is a rabid dog that needs to be tranquilized. "How long has this been going on?"

Katniss leans her back up against the counter, anxiously twisting her braid. "Nothing's happened. Nothing  _will_  happen."

"That's not what it looked like just a minute ago," Annie says with more curiosity with reproach.

Katniss feels her shoulders slump. "He comes down here, sometimes. Mostly just hangs around while I fold laundry. But that's the full extent of it."

_And I slept in his bed once, but since that was an accident, I'm just going to pretend that doesn't count._

Annie's eyebrows arch, and she folds her arms over her chest as she tries not to smirk. "I think he likes you, Katniss."

Blood flares in her cheeks as she aggressively shakes her head. "No.  _No_. I'm just—we're just friends, I guess. I'm a maid, Annie. He could never like me like that."

"He was about to kiss you."

Her teeth grit. "He wasn't. I don't know what that was, but it wasn't what it looked like."

"It was  _exactly_  what it looked like." Annie's lips curl up in an amused grin. "Sounds like we've got ourselves a Cinderella on our hands."

* * *

When she's buffing the veneer on the banister, she hears uneven footsteps thumping down the steps, and the hair on the back of her neck stands.

"Hey," Peeta whispers, sweeping past her and around the bottom of the staircase, the rail separating them as he peers up at her. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

She doesn't know what to say, so she keeps her lips sealed as she swipes the smudged rag over the gloss.

Even with her eyes fixed on her work, she can see his brow crinkle through her peripheries. He takes a step closer. "Are you alright?"

Honestly, she doesn't know. Since Annie barged in on them this morning, her mind's been a battleground, leaving her disoriented and completely unsure of her feelings for Peeta. All she knows is that she cares for him a million times more than she should, and that this exact mindset could be lethal if she were to let it win, which she won't do. Peeta is royalty. She is nothing. It'd be best for both of them if she just waits for the foundation of their friendship to crumble beneath their feet.

He must sense that she isn't going to answer. Taking another step inward, he grips the mahogany spindles holding up the guardrail, anxious eyes raking over her. "I was too forward with you this morning, and for that, I... I can't apologize enough. I never intended to make you uncomfortable, and I  _definitely_  never intended to push you away. Please, talk to me."

Katniss's heart feels like it's being shoved through a meat grinder. Everything hurts, even more so because of the way his voice sounds so strained, so apologetic.

"I'm a maid, Peeta," she tells him as coolly as she can manage. "Maids can't be friends with princes." It's such a brutal struggle to keep her voice flat and emotionless. She wonders if he can tell.

He must not be able to, because his expression falls, shredding her heart all over again. "That doesn't matter to me."

"It matters to everyone else. I don't want to be so selfish that I force you to sneak around just so we can be friends. It's dangerous, and it isn't fair to you."

"No one's  _forcing_  me to do anything, Katniss." His knuckles blanche as they strangle the banister's spindles. "I sneak down to the laundry room to see you because those thirty minutes are the best minutes of my day. I  _want_  to spend time with you."

The effect his words have on her is the exact opposite of what she wants. They thaw her, her icy demeanor melting away as she finally looks down to him.

"You can't feel that way," she murmurs.

But his eyes sparkle with the physical affirmation of his declaration. "I've felt that way for ten years, Katniss. It will take a lot more than one or two sentences to annul that."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he rounds the banister, pausing on the step below Katniss, their eyes at equal heights. She can taste his breath again, and begins to feel her parapets crumbling as the sensation rouses her into total alertness.

"Please come to my room tonight. Bristol is usually gone by ten o'clock, so ten-thirty would be entirely safe. I need to talk to you, actually  _talk_ , without worrying about interruptions."

Leaving her with no time to protest, and no breath to do it with, the youngest prince slips by her as he clambers up the stairs, but not before grazing the back of her hand with his fingertips.

* * *

When the other maids have retired to their quarters, Katniss crawls from her creaky cot and slips into the corridor. She knows exactly which routes to take to slink unnoticed through the palace, and within five minutes, she's arrived at the prince's door. Her heart does a tiny backflip when she finds he left it slightly ajar in anticipation of her arrival.

As she enters, she knocks faintly on the doorframe. Her veins pulse as she discovers him at the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap, ankles crossed, and eyes anxious as they flit toward the door. When they take in her form, however, the apprehension fades to calm relief, and he immediately pops up into a stance.

"I thought you weren't coming," he exhales, padding toward the her.

Truth be told, she thought she wasn't, either. But her feet seemed to have a plan of their own.

She toes her way deeper into the bedchamber as he slides past her to gently seal the door. And then he's behind her, his palm grazing against her back in a directional gesture, guiding her toward the bed.

He sits.

She doesn't.

He raises an eyebrow.

She swallows.

"Katniss," he whispers.

"Peeta," she says.

With a frustrated sigh, his hands lift, the heels of his palms slanting over his eyes. "I've been trying to find the right words to tell you all day. And I have nothing." He rubs his face. "All I can say is that I don't want this to end. Whatever we have, it's wonderful, and I can't stand the thought of letting it go."

Her throat thickens, but she remains two feet from the edge of the bed, toes anxiously curling inside of her socks. "I don't want it to stop, either. But this isn't safe."

"I don't  _care_  about what's safe," he blurts suddenly, his hands falling away to reveal red-ringed, pained eyes. "I care about you. You—you're my only friend, Katniss. My  _best_  friend."

She feels like someone's dropped an anvil on her chest. "Peeta—"

"If you don't want this because you don't feel the same, then I can accept that. But if you don't want this because you're worried about  _me_ …"

He doesn't finish. He doesn't  _have_  to finish.

She steps inward, her toes brushing his, and sparks shoot up her legs. "We have to be careful, Peeta.  _So_  careful."

"I know."

"Like what happened in the laundry room today… it can't happen again."

"I know."

"You'll have to pretend you don't recognize me everywhere else."

He gives her a sad smile. "I know." But his fingers reach out, finding and lacing in with hers, pulling her closer. "Now, come lie down with me."

With little hesitation, she allows him to lure her up onto the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress as he leads them up toward the headboard. When he lies on his side, she follows suit, her heart kick-starting as his legs weave in with hers.

"Do you want to 'accidentally' stay here again tonight?" he murmurs, his palm cupping her neck as his nose grazes her cheek. She feels his lips pressing to the skin there, leaving a white-hot mark in their wake.

With a spark of heat licking up the sides of her belly, she curls her calves tighter against his, their stomachs flush up against each other's. She gives him a soft nod to answer his question, although the nod must double as her permission, because without anything to interrupt them this time, his mouth slants eagerly over hers.

She fervently inhales his taste, the inebriating blend of cinnamon and honey engulfing her as he kisses her enthusiastically, yet somehow, still gently. It's the first time anyone's ever done this to her; she assumes it isn't his, because his lips are so adept as they seal with hers, his tongue sliding against the seam in a way that makes her moan. His hands graze over her back, her waist, up her neck and finally lace themselves in her hair, crushing her to him at every possible point.

Everything is so sudden, but at the same time it feels like a long time in the making. It was over a year ago that he spoke to her for the first time since the bread, every blanket fort and bad joke and indulgent glance in the meantime leading up to this. She's aware of how opposite their worlds are, and how impossible their connection is, but she doesn't care.

She doesn't know how or why, but something inside of her tugs at her heartstrings and promises that this would've happened anyway.

* * *

She comes back the next night, and the next night, and the next. It's always after the rest of the palace has gone to sleep, and the entire world is peaceful and quiet and theirs.

He paints the moon for her, and she sings him lullabies, and they memorize the spaces between each other's fingertips and the taste of each other's mouths. He makes her feel like royalty. He treats her like a princess.

Although, he still calls her his little songbird.

* * *

She's polishing the silverware in the kitchen when two maids, Clove and a redhead that looks too much like a fox, burst through the door in a fit of giggles.

"You should've seen his  _face_ , Clove."

"I  _did_  see his face. The poor kid looked like he was about to have a heart attack."

"Probably will, if he ends up marrying the broad. Of all the possible brides in the whole world, the Queen had to pick the one with breasts the size of cantaloupes. She'll suffocate the lad."

Katniss's chest begins to prickle, a sickening feeling sinking into the pit of her stomach. As she massages the fork in her hands with the wrinkled cloth, she prays they're not talking about what she's thinking, and takes a round of deep breaths.

The fox-girl leans up against the door, rubbing her temples as she struggles not to laugh. "Why do you think she's doing this? The others aren't married yet. Why start with him?"

Nausea steamrolls Katniss's belly. She clenches her lips until they grow numb.

"I don't know," Clove says. "I mean, he's certainly not her favorite. Sacrificing him to another royal family wouldn't be beyond her."

"True." The redhead pops her lips. "But does she  _really_  have to sacrifice the kid to a woman who's got at least ten years on him? That seems inhumane."

"She's not the only one coming, you know. Apparently they're bringing in a few more later this afternoon."

"Poor girls. Being auctioned off like that. It's not all that fair."

"I feel more sorry for the prince," Clove sighs. "He doesn't do nothing, you know. Just minds his own business. Good painter, though."

Bile bubbles in Katniss's throat. She keeps her head lowered, praying the vertigo will ebb.

"He's got  _glorious_  hands," Foxface giggles, and Clove joins in, smacking the girl playfully on the shoulder.

"See, and that's why I don't feel so sorry for the ladies, you know? Cato's got hands like Peeta's. Big. Thick fingers and all. But he's not so  _gentle_. God, can you  _imagine_  what the prince's feel like?"

The words alone make Katniss's skin tingle with the memory of his palms ghosting all over her skin. Their nights together don't go far beyond kissing, but the way Peeta caresses her is cosmic, his fingertips painting stars and moons over her body as his mouth clashes with hers.

She can't take this anymore. She lets the fork clatter into the case, the noise drawing the attention of the two maids by the door.

"Watch it there, Everdeen," Clove sneers.

Katniss disregards them, partially because she couldn't give two shits about either maid, but mostly because her head is pounding so intensely that it dulls all of her other senses. With trembling fingers, she latches the silverware case and dumps the rag on top, pushing her way out of the kitchen.

Voices waft through the corridor, the particular resonance of the sound revealing their location. Katniss follows their trail, which brings her to one of the balconies overlooking the grand hall, in which four-story stained glass windows shed splinters of colored light over the five thrones, three of which are occupied.

She clutches the guardrail to keep herself steady as she sees Peeta propped in the middle chair, the King and Queen bracketing him on either side.

"I do  _not_  want to marry her," Peeta growls, his voice reverberating off the high, stone walls. "Her, or the others."

"You haven't  _met_  the others, dear," the Queen responds back, her sugar-coated tone doing little to hide the malice beneath it.

"I'm only seventeen! My brothers don't have wives, so what makes my case different?"

The King lets out a deep, rumbling sigh. "Peeta, you are third in line for the throne of Panem. It is far more logical to have you extend our family's power by seeking a throne elsewhere. Princess Delilah could become the queen of her territory within the year, on the condition that she weds. This is a wonderful opportunity, son."

"I don't  _want_  Delly. Or Madge, or Cashmere, or whoever the other princesses are."

"Peeta Mellark," his mother hisses. "As a prince, it is your duty to serve your royal family."

In a motion that makes the entire room tremble, Peeta slams his fist against the golden arm of his cathedra. "My  _duty_? Isn't it my brothers' duty to continue the royal bloodline? They're in their twenties, and yet they've done  _nothing_  to 'serve the royal family.' I'm still a kid! You can't ask of me what you've failed to ask of them!"

The King rubs his tired, wrinkle-stippled face. "Peeta, please."

Peeta's responding inhale is loud enough to echo off the walls, but before he can follow up with another plea, the room resonates with the low rumble of opening doors, causing him and his parents to grow rigid.

Katniss's heart plummets as she sees three heads appear from underneath the balcony, the trio gliding up the red velvet runner that leads to the thrones. The first two are soldiers of sorts, clad in all black and broad-shouldered, but the third individual is a small girl, probably not much older than Katniss.

When they reach the thrones, the soldiers introduce the girl as Princess Madge, and Katniss feels like she's about to be sick. She can't hear exactly what the princess says, but her words are gentle, soft; virtually the female counterpart of Peeta's. It's then, with the sound of the princess's voice, that she suddenly understands it's over. Regardless of whether Peeta's paired with Madge or someone else, this isn't a race she can win.

She should've distanced herself from Peeta while she still could. Before she became too attached. But she's been sleeping with the boy for nearly five months, which means that roughly one-hundred and fifty nights have been spent falling in love with a prince that was never really hers to begin with. Which is something she's known from the get-go, of course. She's just a maid. Peeta's a prince. Their worlds have a tiny sliver of an overlap, which they struggled too hard to stretch so that it could hold them both, together, but that was an awful idea, and how else could it have possibly ended?

Blinking back the stinging sensation that prickles under her lids, she scrambles away from the balcony and refuses to look back.

* * *

The maids' quarters are particularly lively that night, buzzing with the news of the visiting princesses, which prompts Katniss to curl the scratchy sheets around her body like a hermit crab retracting into its shell. She remains like that until even after the obnoxious chatter has died down, falling asleep overheated and with a raw throat.

In the morning, she feigns sickness so that she can cower in her cot, aware that if she were to leave these quarters, running into Peeta would be an inevitability. And that's something she simply can't afford. Even if he decided to evade their typical encounter in the laundry room, chances are she'd see him elsewhere, possibly courting one of the princesses or receiving a brutal lecture by his mother about his "duties."

She sleeps most of the day away until she's shaken awake mid-afternoon by soft hands, her eyes flickering open to see Annie folded at the edge of her cot.

"Hey, Katniss. How are you feeling?"

She swabs her face with the woolen blanket. "Like death." It isn't too far from the truth.

Annie fixes her with a sad smile, her sea-green eyes twinkling with sympathy.

"He asked about you."

Her lungs contort into an unnatural position, and she has to remember how to breathe while simultaneously keeping her face void of all emotion. Whatever they have –  _had_  – is a secret. Even Annie can't know, although she's definitely not in the dark.

"Who?" Katniss coughs, playing dumb.

But she's a pitiful actress. Annie rolls her eyes, rubbing Katniss's shoulder comfortingly. "You don't have me fooled, you know. While none of the other maids have noticed, I see you sneaking out of here every night. And I'm pretty confident that you're not getting out of bed just to go clean a bathtub for two hours at a time."

Katniss's face is already flushed from all the heat wrapped up in her blanket, but she can feel her skin transition to an even darker crimson. "You can't tell anyone."

"Hey. I would never tell a soul." She crosses her fingers over her heart. "Now, what's going on with you and the prince?"

Katniss squeezes her eyes shut, willing this entire situation to dissipate. But when they open again, Annie's still propped up inches from her face, waiting for a straight answer.

She feels her throat constricting again, her eyes tingling as they dampen, and she coughs to cover up the sob collecting in the back of her mouth.

"I—I think I love him, Annie." It's something she's been too afraid to admit, but as it slips from her mouth, she knows that it's undoubtedly true. She was vulnerable before, but admitting she loves Peeta now puts her in an even lower position, since it's too late for that affection to do anything but plunge straight back into her chest.

Annie gives her another smile, her thumb grazing the curve of her shoulder. "I don't think that's a one-way feeling, kiddo. The boy was a wreck this morning when he saw me."

"Of course he's a wreck. He—he's getting married, Annie. To someone else."

"Ah." Annie sighs. "So that's what this is about."

"The King and Queen are shipping him off to another kingdom to extend the bloodlines, or whatever, and there's nothing we can do."

Annie pushes the sheet off Katniss's arm, allowing some of the cool air of the basement to leak into her tight blanket burrito. "Here's something you  _can_  do – talk to him, Katniss."

"Annie—"

"He's the one who's being forced into a marriage he doesn't want, even though he loves someone else. I think he could use some moral support, too. I mean, the poor kid was sitting on the floor of the laundry room when I came down. All red eyes, messy hair, you know? God, he was a disaster. Immediately scrambled to his feet and asked me if I knew where you were, and I said you weren't feeling well, and I swear he almost had a breakdown right there. He managed to pull himself together, but he was still pretty shaken up when he left."

Katniss pokes her arms from the blankets to wipe her nose. "I never meant to hurt him."

"I don't really think this is your fault. The situation, I mean. But you know, avoiding him probably isn't the best course of action."

Katniss nods. "You're right."

"I say you go see him tonight. Cry a little. Hug a little. Figure things out. I mean, if he's going to be delivered like a mail-order bride to another kingdom, at least make sure you two end things on a good note. Because if you don't, you're going to regret it for quite a while."

With a sniffle, she nods again, curling up tighter in her blanket. "Thanks, Annie."

"No problem. Remember, you're his Cinderella – the clock striking midnight is inevitable, so you might as well make the best out of the short time you're given."

* * *

It seems as though Peeta being auctioned off peps up the other maids to the point where the entire room hums with energy as they're all settling down in the evening. Usually the whole room is lifeless come eleven o'clock at night, but the maids are all buzzing around long after the hour has passed. It takes until the very end of the evening before it all calms, a film of silence dampening the room and providing the perfect opportunity for Katniss to slip out once again.

The bell tower beyond the palace walls strikes midnight, its sonorous ring echoing through the corridor as she arrives at Peeta's bedchamber. She neglects to knock before letting herself in – after all, that room feels closer to home than any other place on earth.

A cool breeze dances about the room, a shard of moonlight beaming through the open window and illuminating the still form of Peeta on the bed. His body's facing the window, his back to the door and to Katniss; she whispers his name into the static, but he doesn't respond, so she guesses he's asleep.

Stripping herself of her outerwear, leaving nothing but her slip and cotton panties, she pads over to his bed and slides onto the mattress that knows their intertwined forms by heart. Peeta stirs a little, but he doesn't wake. Dipping under the covers and snuggling up against the flat expanse of his bare back, she wraps her arms around him and burrows into his warmth, her lips pressing against the heated skin of his shoulder.

She feels his body grow rigid against her chest, a shallow breath sucked into his lungs.

"Katniss?" he chokes out into the dark.

She kisses his shoulder again, faintly pleased by the way he shudders under her mouth. "I couldn't stay away," she murmurs.

Before she can register what's happening, he's flipping around, his arms coiling around her thin body and clutching her to him in a bone-crushing embrace. She can feel him trembling, but she realizes she is, too, and so she grasps onto him in return, burying her face in his collar.

"I thought I was never going to see you again," he whispers, the quiver in his body manifesting itself in his voice.

She shifts in his grasp, snaking her hands up to cradle his jaw, brushing away the wet streaks slithering over his cheeks. As she does so, however, he squeezes her more tightly up against his frame, crashing his lips into hers. Even in its urgency, the kiss is still as gentle as ever, because that's the only dynamic Peeta knows. She wonders if her memory will do this part of him justice once he's gone. If she'll remember that regardless of how calm or how insistent he was, his kisses were never anything but reverent.

"I can't go," he says against her lips, his hands roaming over her bare shoulders and down to her hips, the thin fabric doing little to block the electricity emanating from his fingertips. "I can't do it."

His touch draws a gasp from her lips, and she winds her legs around his waist, suddenly hungry for something unfamiliar, something beyond her reach. "It'll be okay."

And it will, in some ways. In others, it won't. But neither of them has much of a choice in the matter, so they'll simply have to make do with the cards they're being dealt.

"Katniss?" Her name dribbles off his tongue in a short gasp as he suctions his mouth to her neck.

"Yes?"

He peppers a tingling trail of hot flesh along her throat, her jaw, her cheek, and finally back to her lips. He draws back just enough for their eyes to lock, his blue and her silver brilliantly bright even in the gloom.

"I want you to know that I love you. And that I never wanted to leave you."

Although the words won't fill the hollow left by his absence, it'll certainly make it more bearable. Because of this, his confession is one of the best gifts he could possibly give; she has no reservations about returning the favor.

She brackets his jaw, her thumbs stroking the sharp line of it, desperate to memorize the feel of his skin in the little time they have left. She inhales, drawing in his scent, his taste, before finally echoing his declaration.

"I love you, too, Peeta. Always."

His responding kiss is like the ribbon on package, sealing their promise and fixing it into a tangible form. She melts against his body, and he holds her in, his tongue painting everything that was left unsaid against her lips. She moans her acceptance, her reciprocation, knowing that no string of fragile words could possibly cram all the things she needs to tell him into their quickly expiring timetable.

But, even now, kisses don't seem like enough.  _Nothing_  seems like enough. Desperate for him in a way she never could've imagined, Katniss asks him to be with her, really  _be_  with her. And the young prince, who'd do anything for his little songbird, eagerly indulges this final wish of hers, gently freeing her of her clothes, and him of his own, until they're only heat and skin and shallow breaths and impatient touches. His body feels like fire against her fingertips, and his lips taste like honey and courage, and she lets him take the only thing she has left to give him as she takes the only thing he has left to give her. It's a fair, painful, beautiful tradeoff.

And in an inexperienced flurry of awkward shifting and uncomfortable giggles, the prince and the maid become each other's in a way they could be no one else's. After they've found their rhythm and brought each other higher, higher, and higher, he gives her his devotion, and she gives him her voice, singing for him as they tumble over the edge together, together, one final time.

* * *

The youngest prince leaves later that week, parked in a carriage that takes him to a kingdom a day-trip from Panem. Their final goodbye had been the night he first made love to her, because she knew she wouldn't be able to see him again after that without breaking down entirely. After they'd come down from their highs, they curled up together to fall asleep in their warm cocoon. She'd planned on crawling out in the morning before he awoke, but of course, she stirred into consciousness with the sunrise streaming through the window and Peeta's mouth painting promises between her thighs. It made her departure a little more difficult, although she knew she'd ultimately be thankful for the extra time with him.

And she was. She  _is_. After he's been gone for a week, she can still feel the touch of his skin against hers, the ghost of his warmth lacing her up with his memory. It was hard to get out of bed the first few days, but life goes on, because the prince loved her,  _loves_  her, and she'll always be his little songbird even if they're many horizons apart.

Sometimes she wonders if he'll fall in love with Princess Madge. Eventually, she supposes he will. Madge is a pretty girl, and appeared to be sweet from the fleeting moment Katniss saw her. The notion doesn't make her angry as often as she expects it to, and maybe that's because although Madge has him from here on out, she had him first, in a way no one else could. They were each other's first loves. That must mean something. And to her, it's everything.

The first three weeks are easier than anticipated. She struggles a little with getting out of bed most mornings, but once she's active, she manages to get by alright.

But as soon as the fourth week hits, it seems the residual ache that's been hanging over her head since his departure suddenly comes clamoring down on her, knocking her breath straight from her lungs. She wakes up limp and sore all over her body, all her joints throbbing whenever she moves, and her stomach protesting to the tiniest things. The misery makes her sick morning after morning, the nausea lingering until the afternoon, but by then it's too late to get to work.

After a week of this, Katniss awakes to her blanket being yanked from her shivering body. She startles into consciousness, her stomach lurching as she jolts up to see none other than the Queen herself hovering over the edge of her cot.

"Worthless girl," the Queen sneers. Her eyes are beady, but the blue in them makes Katniss's throat clench, because it's a blue she hasn't seen in a month.

Katniss begins to shiver, her head whirling as violently as her stomach. She grasps out for the blanket, but the Queen only scoffs, holding the fabric just out of reach.

"Get out of my castle, girl. I don't pay you to lounge around all day."

"Your Highness—" Katniss begins, feeling the acerbic taste of bile gurgling in her throat.

_Oh no_.

"Don't 'Your Highness' me, you lit—" But her sharpened words taper into a mortified shriek as Katniss buckles over, vomiting on the cement floor.

The Queen lurches back, slapping her hand over her mouth and nose as if she's about to be sick, too. Katniss remains frozen, hunched over the edge of the cot, a slight chill slithering through her as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.

And then, suddenly, it all makes sense.

"Oh my god," Katniss whispers, her eyes slowly rising to meet the revolted gaze that looks too much like the explanation.

The Queen makes something of a choking sound, and Katniss thinks she's going to be sick all over again.

"Are you pregnant?"


	2. Chapter 2

Katniss Everdeen could've never anticipated that fifteen years of service as a palace maid would leave her here: unemployed, pregnant with the youngest prince's child, and horribly, devastatingly alone.

The morning the Queen dismisses her (" _Who in God's name would knowingly commission a dirty whore?_ ") Katniss seeks out her mother, only to find her floundering around the impoverished sector of the kingdom known as the Seam, her fair hair clotted in ratty, uneven clumps around her hollow face. She doesn't recognize her daughter. She pins Katniss with her vacant eyes, murmurs something about primroses, and teeters down the mud path.

Considering she's lived in the palace all her life, Katniss has no clue where to go from here. She has no income. No connections. Not even a place to stay.

Above all, she has no way of contacting Peeta Mellark – who is miles away and now married to someone else – to tell him she's carrying his baby.

Not that it matters.

She'll never see him again, anyway.

* * *

She sneaks into the palace, her desperation for solutions numbing her to the fear of being caught. After sleeping under trees or in alleyways crawling with rats for three nights, she can't imagine the punishment for trespassing would be much worse than what she's already endured. Besides, the guards at the outside door leading to the maid's quarters aren't aware of her termination, so they unsuspectingly let her in.

It's just after dawn, and she finds Annie making her cot. The moment the girl sees her, her green eyes flicker to life, and she flings herself at Katniss. She smells like clean linen. Katniss doesn't want to ever move.

"Where have you been?" Annie's palms carve into Katniss's back; she's sure her friend can feel the sharp pikes of her shoulder blades, the rutted disks in her spine. She's barely eaten.

"I can't be here," Katniss says, her voice a whisper. Her gaze flickers to all corners of the room, straining not to draw attention to herself. "Where can we talk?"

Annie leads Katniss into the laundry room, where the clunky noises drown out their presence. They crouch behind a washing machine. Katniss breathes deeply, struggling to push out the memories that swamp her thoughts. So much happened here. A quiet song, one she used to sing to Peeta while she worked, floats through the shiny corners of her head, and she trembles.

"The Queen fired me." Katniss leans her cheek against the cool metal of the washing machine, its hum whirring through her whole body.

"I assumed as much," Annie murmurs. "Was it because you were sick? Or did she figure out about you and the prince?"

Her head is spinning. She needs water, or food, or Peeta, but not in that order.

"She found out I'm pregnant, Annie."

Even in the dim lighting of the work room, Katniss can see color bleeding out from Annie's cheeks, her hand moving to clasp over her mouth.

"Pr—you're…" Her throat bobs as she swallows stiffly, her eyes fluttering. "Does Peeta know?"

The sound of his name alone severs her heartstrings, leaving a frayed mess of faulty wiring in her core. The last time she said it, it'd been appended to the words  _I love you_ , and without the declaration, those two syllables sound so empty.

She shakes her head. "How could he? It happened the night before he left. I have no way of contacting him."

"We can find a way," Annie shoots back, her tone bloated with anxious enthusiasm. "We know people in the castle. I mean, even Finn—"

Katniss feels her lips perk up a little at Annie's naiveté. She's had the second Prince's right hand man, Finnick Odair, wrapped around her finger since they were children. So, she was right to assume this gave her some sort of power, since Rye Mellark could be bent like a flower stem to his best friend's influence, but wrong to assume that this connection alone could solve everything. Prince Rye was fairly immature for his age, but he wasn't foolish.

"Annie, under no circumstances would Finnick be able to convince Prince Rye to, somehow, contact his brother on behalf of a maid claiming to be  _carrying his child_."

"But Katniss—"

"Look, I'm not even supposed to be in the palace." Katniss clutches her sharp elbows, holding them against her ribs. "There's nothing I can do."

Annie looks her over for a few moments, her eyes wide with sympathy. Katniss can see the calculations streaming through her head, and then, as quick as a blackout, it all cuts off. Annie sighs.

"You're tiny, Katniss."

Katniss's nails dig crescents into the cracked skin over her elbow. "I know."

" _Too_ tiny."

"I'm aware."

"Are… are you planning on keeping it?"

It isn't a thought she's confronted yet, although maybe she should have it earlier. Especially for girls in the working class, terminating pregnancies isn't unheard of.

But it's Peeta's baby. She doesn't know if she'll physically be able to carry the child to full term, having no job, no money, no shelter, no steady source of food. But if there  _is_  a way, her loyalty to Peeta and consequently his baby will win out, she presumes.

"Maybe I can find a way to get hired back," she whispers. "There's got to be a way. I mean, they're  _always_  in need of more maids, you know? I bet…" Her voice dies in her throat as she sees Annie looking down to her own knees, clicking the sides of them together.

"That's not going to fix everything," Annie says softly, reaching out to touch Katniss's shoulder. As she retracts her fingers, they brush the end of Katniss's snared braid, the hairs pulling delicately on her scalp. It, oddly, reminds her of Peeta. His fingers in her hair, or on her jaw, would beget the same sensation. She wonders if he's ever touched Princess Madge like that.

Shuddering to rid the thought from her bloodstream, Katniss slumps the entire side of her body against the washing machine. "I wonder what he'd want me to do."

"Does it matter?" Annie scratches the side of her nose. "He's gone. This isn't about what he'd want. This is about what you need."

Her throat tightens, and her brain begins crunching numbers, trying and failing to remember the last time she hydrated.

"I just need to survive." And she must, for now. Until what, however, she's not sure – until Peeta miraculously returns? Until the baby's born? Until she has no reason to live any longer? The destination has yet to be determined, but in the meantime, she must busy herself by simply  _being_.

* * *

She stumbles through the Seam, searching in vain for her mother. Maybe today she'll remember her daughter. Maybe today she'll be able to help.

But it's been too long since Katniss last ate, or last drank, and her head fills with a kaleidoscope of butterflies; she teeters on her feet, stumbling against a nearby tree trunk.

Before she can crumble, however, firm hands steady her, wringing her arm and yanking her upright.

"Whoa, girl. You alright?"

She blinks away the lacy veneer fogging her vision, revealing quicksilver eyes framed by wrinkled lids. Katniss doesn't speak.

"What's your name?"

The woman's voice is raspy but low, which invites her into its warmth. She's a larger woman, with doughy, olive arms, and wisdom sewn deep into her features. Katniss swallows hard and croaks out her name.

The woman nods. "Katniss, I'm Hazelle. I'm going to get you some food, alright?"

* * *

The woman, who already has four children, becomes an instant mother to Katniss. Her ramshackle home barely has enough room for the five of them, but after Katniss tells her about her state of unemployment  _and_  pregnancy, Hazelle lends her the bed of her youngest daughter, Posy, and fixes up a small bowl of stew.

While she does so, the oldest boy comes home from an afternoon hunting trip, his tote bag lumpy with game. He takes one look at Katniss before turning to his mother.

"We don't have room for her."

"She's just a child," Hazelle replies, awfully calm in the wake of having her authority tested. "We have to protect our own."

"Our  _own_?" the boy sneers, slinging his sack onto the table. "What makes you think she's one of us?"

"She's got nothing but the clothes on her back and a baby on the way. She needs help. That makes her one of us."

His steely eyes flash, his handsome face carved in stone to make his disapproval evident, but he says nothing. Instead, he merely grunts, fishing through the bag of game. Katniss watches him pluck out a squirrel, its neck hyphenated with angry red cuts from where the snare must've caught it. Her stomach churns as he begins cleaning it, right there in the sink, just a foot from her stew.

Moments later, Hazelle brings the food to Katniss.

"You'll have to excuse Gale, honey," she says as she tugs the girl upward, propping her against the rigid pillow. "He gets mighty defensive. But he'll warm up to you. He always does."

As her shaky hand drags the spoon to her own lips, Katniss looks beyond Hazelle to watch the older boy's shoulders strain and flex as he works over the game. They, like nearly all else, remind her of Peeta, once again, and the way his own broad shoulders would tense and arch as he painted, or pulled off his shirt before bed, or held her until they both drifted to sleep. Or, when they made love that first time – _only_ time – and he'd caged her in while setting her free, and her hands had felt the beautiful ridges of muscle in his back, her nails scraping the flesh there. It'd made him moan against her neck, and encouraged him to bury himself deeper inside her, and to whisper her name in devotion. Thinking of it now, Katniss feels so empty all over again, because focusing hard enough once allowed her to feel the ghost of his body rocking into hers. But, in this instant, she feels nothing. It's all gone. Everything.

She rips her eyes from the boy as he works. She doesn't want to think about shoulders any longer.

* * *

She wakes in the morning to a tiny, fox-sized child in her arms, her breaths arching gently against Katniss's stomach. The warmth feels nice, and she lays still a while longer. She's been sleeping alone too long.

But the peace detonates the moment angry footsteps approach the bed. She feels the child being torn from her.

"Posy, not here."

The child makes something of a squeaking sound. "But Gale—"

She pronounces her R's as W's, and it'd make Katniss smile if the child wasn't being yanked away. Cold air licks at her belly as a pocket of cool space replaces Posy, and she begins to sit up.

"She can stay here, if she wants."

Gale's penning the child in his thick arms, brooding over the edge of the bed. "You don't get to call the shots."

The stiffness wiring her jaw shut begins to release as the child cranes her neck to focus her big, grey eyes on Katniss. She sighs, letting her arms flop over the bunched-up sheets in her lap. "I'm sorry for intruding. But you shouldn't be afraid of me."

Gale lets out a cutting sound, something between a laugh and a snarl. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

"I think you don't like me. But I don't know why."

He slouches to set Posy on the floor, his wide hand flattening against her back and shoving her away from the bed. With her gone, he can cross his arms and puff out his chest, magnifying his size by what feels like twice. He was aggressive before. Now, he's flat-out threatening.

"You're a stranger in my home, taking up space, food, water. What's there to like?"

Heat trickles into her face, and she struggles to keep her expression stony. He's right, to some extent. To him, she's nothing but an unwanted, costly guest. One with morning sickness and enough nightmares to keep the entire block awake.

"If you want to be reimbursed, I'll find a way," she offers, her words cased in iron. "I can clean your game. Help you set snares. Just say the word, and I'll figure it out."

Even though he snorts at the offer, she can see the gears beginning to squeal to life behind his eyes.

* * *

It's been a week since Hazelle brought her home, and since then her weight has stabilized, her energy slowly leaking back into her systems. When Gale walks by her cot come morning, he finds her perched on the bed, slipping her feet into a pair of worn-down boots. Katniss can't decide if he appears to be more startled or impressed.

He coughs. "I was just—"

"—going out to set or check the snares?" she finishes. She offers him a smile. "Let me come with you."

The smile isn't returned to any degree, instead waged with a curt nod, but she hasn't seen the older boy smile once since Hazelle hauled her nearly-limp body through the front door. She figures this is as close as she'll get.

They begin their trek into the woods, with Gale gracefully navigating the terrain, and Katniss stumbling over roots and shrubs. Growing up in the palace, nature was never her closest acquaintance, but there's something refreshing about the outdoors which breathes life into her lungs. Within moments, she begins to get the hang of things, able to follow just a few feet behind Gale without slowing him down.

That is, until a dagger of nausea prunes out her core and leaves her retching in a nearby bush. Gale doesn't seem to be deterred, but if he has a drop of sympathy somewhere far below his cool exterior, this moment of vulnerability doesn't unearth it. He stands several feet back, impatiently tapping his toes on the soil as she empties her stomach into the plants.

Minutes later, when they're navigating the wood – slower this time, with Katniss taking deep breaths – Gale clears his throat.

"Mom says your pregnant." He doesn't look back to her.

Her breath hitches, the quiet filled with a few chirping sparrows and a rabbit darting through the undergrowth. She doesn't know how to respond, so she allows her silence to serve as affirmation. And he must take it as such, because he doesn't say anything back.

* * *

He's showing her how to skin a squirrel when he brings it up again. It's been a week since she started accompanying him on his morning trips to the woods. Since then, she's learned next to nothing about him; he's seventeen, protective, constantly brooding, annoyed by all types of birds. And, under no circumstances, chatty.

Although, he'll initiate conversation every so often. Even then, however, it'll be cold and heavily calculated, as if each response of his has been deliberated for minutes on end.

There's been a long pause before he finally says it.

"How long do you have?"

She assumes he means the pregnancy, and not her life. Even he's not  _that_  morbid.

Her knife glides through a patch of stringy fat as she pulls the scrap of flesh from the squirrel's body, just as he's taught her. "At least seven months," she says flatly.

He's breathing loudly through his nose. Several moments pass.

"Do you know the father?"

Her body grows rigid, like someone's replaced her arteries with metal piping, and she needs to take a few deep breaths before she can return to her squirrel.

"Yes."

The silence that ensues is burgeoning with all the unvoiced questions he has for her, like bubbles lifting in a pot of boiling water and straining against the lid. They stream from Gale's body, wrapping around her arms, legs, neck, in suffocating vines, and she waits for him to probe further, to snap all the built-up tension.

It takes him two, maybe three minutes. Her skinned squirrel is lying on the wooden slab, its pink muscles beckoning attention, when he finally opens his mouth again.

"Why isn't he helping you with it?"

Of their own volition, the bloodied fingers of one hand move to her belly, ghosting over the imperceptible arc there. If he knew about the baby,  _would_  he be helping her? Would he abandon his responsibilities to help her raise the child? Would he take care of her in secret?

She used to be sure he would. It was mostly because she hadn't given it much thought – allowing her mind to wander into the hazardous what-if territory wasn't something she'd willingly done, so naturally, she'd fallen back on the ignorant assumption that things would be  _better_  if he were here and knew.

But would they be?

After nearly two months of his absence, she's regressed into blatant uncertainty. She doesn't predict the answers will come any time soon.

After a long while, she wipes a strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand, sniffling.

"He doesn't know," she finally tells him. "He's married now."

* * *

Gale's latent sympathy is awoken after that. The tension planking across his shoulders fizzles, and his behavior becomes less guarded. He'll let her lead in the woods, and remain silent when Posy swings on Katniss like a monkey-child.

He even cracks a smile once or twice when he thinks she's not looking.

In some alternate universe, she'd be contented in their new state of relaxed coexistence, if only her situation was different. If they were comrades out of will and not necessity, or if she wasn't isolated in the Seam, or if she wasn't pregnant, or if she wasn't still constantly aching for a boy who might have already forgotten her… maybe  _then_ , they could really be friends, and maybe she could really be happy. But they can't, and she won't.

After over a month of bunking with the Hawthornes, she still wakes up in the middle of the night with her throat raw from screaming. Some sick, masochistic part of her dreams of Peeta coming to quiet her cries. But he doesn't come. Not even Gale will. Only Posy seeks to comfort Katniss, snuggling deeper into the bed they now share to fold herself against the pregnant teen's body. With another heartbeat fluttering inches from her own, Katniss can remember how to breathe again.

The morning after one particularly rough night, Katniss approaches Hazelle, who's sporting dark bags under her eyes.

"I've extended my stay," Katniss says, her tone loaded with apology, although as she sees it, nothing could ever make up for the burden she's put on their family's shoulders.

But, Hazelle only frowns. "You're carrying a baby, child. You need to be taken care of."

Katniss tries to smile, but the corners of her mouth seem to be weighted with invisible dumbbells, and she doesn't even try to resist with Hazelle pulls her into her thick arms, tucking the girl's cheek against her chest. She's not quite sure what does it – maybe it's the way the woman's hands palm circles over Katniss's shoulders, or the way she just  _holds_  her, in a way that no one, save Peeta, has ever held her – but something lifts her to the acme of her composure and dunks her off the edge, leaving her to plummet into hysteria.

"I can't do this alone," Katniss chokes, emptying herself into the woman's shirt. Hazelle continues to rub her back as she lowers the girl to the cot, never letting go.

"You're not alone," she responds.

And she isn't, not really, but the mere technicality doesn't rescue her from the void. It only makes her cry harder, releasing all the emotions she's been trying to subdue for over two months now. Since she found out, she hasn't cried. She hasn't allowed herself to.

It's all reaching a frightening pinnacle now, though. It's one she can't avoid. And as Hazelle holds her like a mother would hold her child, she finds it's one she doesn't  _want_  to avoid. Not anymore.

"I miss him so  _much_ , Hazelle." The sound that shreds her throat is borderline animalistic, and she knows how pathetic she must seem, but she can't stop now. "I love him, I loved him, and I thought I would be strong enough, but I know I'm not, now. Not like this. Not with the baby."

"Have you told him?" Hazelle asks, her voice remaining soft in effort to coax Katniss from her panic.

It occurs to Katniss how little she's told the woman, but after all Hazelle has done for her, she sees no point in keeping it back now. She just needs to tell someone, needs another soul to understand her. With Annie penned inside the castle she's forbidden to enter, there's no one else who knows her situation, which has left her to navigate this tangled network of binds and dilemmas all by herself.

"He left before I knew," Katniss tells her, her voice growing raspy. "The night before he left, we… we did…  _that_  because I'd never see him again, and he told me he loved me, and I loved him, I really did, but I didn't think  _this_  would happen. And now I can't tell him, because I have no way to reach him. He'll never know."

Hazelle rocks her gently, the movement soothing the hiccups from Katniss's throat, but the ache in her muscles still remain, flaring up stronger than ever before. Even her body craves him.

"Where'd he go, baby girl? We can find him. I can help you find him—"

"He's living in another kingdom, Hazelle."

Katniss can feel the woman stilling, her breath stalled somewhere in her chest. It's clear she doesn't understand. Here, no one leaves the kingdom, not unless they're in the army. Or, if they're royalty.

Her chubby fingers begin to rake through Katniss's hair, her breath curling against her ear. "Honey, who is he? Who's the man?"

She can taste his name gathering on her tongue like a thousand tiny needles waiting to come plunging downward. She hasn't spoken it since he was standing before her, eyes red-ringed but bright with respect, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to say it again.

So, she takes a deep breath, and pours out her confession into Hazelle's shoulder.

"The youngest prince," she says, finally.

* * *

Katniss is lying belly-up on the cot, the darkness from outside seeping in through the windows, an elastic black beginning to stretch to all corners of the room. It's been nearly an hour since Hazelle left, and she can't help the worry that balloons in her sore chest. After carefully pacifying Katniss, the woman had tornadoed from the home on some undetermined war path, refusing to announce her destination but impossibly eager to get there.

As she waits, she lets her hands glide over her belly. She wonders when she'll be able to feel it. As of now, she just feels grossly bloated; to others, she assumes it merely looks like she's been eating well. But when will she pass through that threshold? When will it begin to feel less like piggishness and more like a baby? When will it begin to feel like  _his_  baby? Will it have strong legs like him? She imagines if the little thing has any Peeta in him or her, the poor tyke will be quite a chubby baby. Maybe it'll have his eyes. Maybe it'll be able to paint.

Or, maybe it'll look and behave nothing like the youngest prince. Maybe Katniss's contributions will overwhelm its father's to the point of unrecognizability, where she'll begin to doubt if the baby is even his, and drive herself to the brink of insanity with the fear that she imagined Peeta all along.

Her chest is beginning to tighten when she hears footsteps on the kitchen floor, nearing her cot.

"Katniss?"

Her neck snaps to the side to hail her visitor. Through the dark, she can make out little beyond his rigid silhouette.

"Gale?"

She can hear the crackling of his jaw as he clenches and unclenches it.

"Is it true?" he asks.

Something in his tone leads her palms to flatten over her belly in an innate move of protectiveness, although she knows he'd never lay a hand on her. She watches him, waiting for her eyes to adjust to him, but remains silent.

He takes a step closer, and her heart coils.

"I—I heard you. With Mom, earlier. I don't want to believe it."

How much had he heard? Everything?

She's unable to respond. Instead, she slowly sits, leaning up against the wall.

"Was it really him?"

With him bowing over the edge of the bed, she can finally make out the cast iron eyes, the ones whose color mirrors hers, but whose temper is entirely foreign. Her body wants to be afraid of him, and it shrinks against the wall of sod and concrete behind her, but her mind remains resilient. She's not ashamed, so she has no reason to be afraid.

"Yes."

For a brief moment, this seems to almost deflate Gale, as if he was nothing more than a sack filled to the brim with hot air. But he recovers himself soon enough, growing stern once more.

"He isn't—he's not one of us. He's… he's the reason we have nothing, Katniss. People like you and I."

She begins to shake her head. How could she not defend him? Their kingdom's stratification was caused by the system, caused by his  _parents_. Not by him. "He's not like th—"

"They're  _all_  like that!" Gale hisses, his voice laced with venom. "And you loved him? How… how is that  _possible_?"

_Because he was different,_  she wants to say.  _Because he was sweet. Because he was kind. Because he was funny. Because he loved me, somehow, more than anything._

Gale doesn't wait for her defense.

"He couldn't have loved you either. It wouldn't make sense."

"Gale—"

"A  _prince_? Jesus, he could've had the pick of the litter, and he—"

" _Gale._ " Her voice severs his contention, because goodness knows there'd be other things she'd have to sever if he were to complete that sentence.

His hands move to his hair, tugging in frustration at the roots. "It doesn't make sense, Katniss."

"Not everything is about wealth," she snarls. "We were friends for ages. I don't know why he loved me, but he did." But her voice cracks on the last word, and she adds more quietly: "I mean, he must have."

Gale grunts, rubbing his face.

"It doesn't make sense," he says one final time, the anger still shimmering like an instrumental behind his words. "Nothing makes sense. Not—"

He's interrupted by the angry grunt of the door as it slams open. Both Gale and Katniss startle, shrinking away from the door as a figure slips through the doorway. And then another figure. And then another.

"Katniss?" the second one calls out, and the voice that echoes through the room sends warmth curling through Katniss's chest, because it's been too long since she last heard it.

"Annie?" Katniss whispers.

* * *

The torches in the corridor burn orange, casting a sickening hue across the faces of Annie, Hazelle, and Finnick Odair as they tiptoe down the hall. Although it wasn't difficult to steal into the palace given Finnick's high status, drawing attention to themselves is the last thing on their list of priorities. Getting caught by the guards would end in nothing short of disaster.

In recent years, Katniss hasn't frequented this quarter of the castle, but she still recognizes where they are within an instant of them straying from the staircase.

"Who are we going to see?" Katniss asks shakily, although she's afraid she already knows the answer.

"Rye," Finnick whispers, leading them around a bend.

Katniss thinks she may pass out.

Hazelle, Annie, and Finnick had tried to explain most of the situation to her as they made their way from the Seam just minutes ago. The concise summary included a vague recitation of how Hazelle had posed as a maid to sneak into the castle, finding someone who knew Katniss – cue the entrance of Annie – and who could help her cook up a plan to contact Peeta. From there, they sought out Finnick. But that's where the clarity ended.

Now, they approach Prince Rye's door, the whispers of their footsteps fading to silence.

Finnick cocks his brows, nodding at Annie, before rapping on the door in some rhythmic code. There's silence, and then a shuffling beyond the wall, a cough, and then the door swings open.

There stands Rye Mellark, the striking blues of his eyes making Katniss's stomach pang, the sloppy curls dangling over his brow guiding tingles up her fingers. She remembers braiding her hands in his hair, and wonders if it would feel the same, now.

She aches everywhere. She's exhausted and sore from missing him so much.

Rye looks between his friend and the three women he doesn't know, his eyes narrowing to slits. "What's going on?" he asks.

Finnick steps forward, but not before extending a hand to cup Katniss's shoulder.

"We need to contact Peeta."

Rye snorts, raking his hands through his hair, the muscles in his neck flexing as he looks away. "Good luck. Even I haven't spoken to him since he left."

Something in Katniss's stomach folds over on itself, ice prickling up her spine. She reaches through the dark and grasps Hazelle's hand. "So it's not—"

"You're a maid, aren't you?"

Rye's looking at her now, his voice curt but not unfriendly. She feels pink petals flowering in her cheeks as she locks eyes with him. " _Was_  a maid, Your Highness. I was fired."

"If you were fired, the what are you doing here?"

At which point in the story does she begin? With the Queen hurrying her out the back door, cackling as she fell in the dirt? With finding out about the baby? With Peeta's departure? With the countless encounters she and the youngest prince shared, all leading up to this? With her song?

Her speechlessness plugs the corridor like a thick gas, strangling her and obscuring all else. She opens her mouth to say something, or maybe to vomit, but nothing comes out.

Surprisingly, it's a voice from behind her that comes to her rescue.

"The girl's pregnant," Hazelle booms, stepping next to Katniss and curving her palm comfortingly into her spine, her arm keeping the poor girl upright. "And your younger brother's the father."

A nearly comical delay scribbles confusion over Rye's face, his jaw slack as Hazelle's declaration drenches them. Several second pass with no movement, and then suddenly Rye's eyes expand to the size of whole kingdoms, the blood in his face shrinking away from the skin.

He rubs his cheeks. "Shit.  _Shit_." He's shaking his head, now. "Are you sure?"

Unable to say his name, or to further expound her circumstances, Katniss merely nods.

With his hand curled into a fist, Rye's forearm hammers the doorframe. "Look, if money is what you're after, that can be arranged. Or, even your job back at the palace."

Katniss shakes her head, her voice finally building in the back of her mouth. "I just want to tell him. I don't care how. I can write a letter—"

Rye palms his forehead. "Letters go through ridiculous stages of security. It'll never get there."

As if someone's taken a thumbtack to her chest, she feels her lungs deflate and shrivel like crinkled balloons. Desperately, she tries to breathe in, but a valve somewhere in her throat has sealed off her windpipe, and she squeezes Hazelle's hand, trying to steady herself, trying to find air—

"Look," Rye blurts, clearly flustered by the panic attack visibly looming over Katniss's head like a storm cloud. "I can—I can take you to see him. I miss my brother, too."

The seal stopped in Katniss's throat dissolves, a cool rush of air filling her lungs.

"Really?"

He rubs his face. "I'm quite overdue for a visit. No one has to know I'm bringing an ex-maid with me."

For the first time in over two months, she can feel a shadowy pulse in her chest, the stiffness evaporating from her body like steam from a mug of tea. She fights a smile, and the urge to bound across the corridor to hug him. Instead, she settles on a weak, "Thank you, Your Highness."

He acknowledges her with a soft nod.

"We'll part just before dawn to avoid the heavy security and, more importantly, my mother." He rubs the hollows of his cheeks. "We should arrive near dusk."

_Think, we'll be there by this time tomorrow_ , says a small voice behind her eyes. The notion fills her with warmth, elation masking nearly all else to the point where she can almost forget the dormant anxiety. Almost.

* * *

She's perched across from Rye in the carriage, packets of sunlight bubbling through the open cavity between the roof and the door. Beyond the car lies nothing but fields, laced with rows and rows of green sprouts, glistening with morning dew.

The space between them is monopolized with silence; he hasn't spoken to her once, although she can practically see the impending questions building behind his clenched lips.

At some point mid-morning, Prince Rye starts bouncing his knees as he looks out the window, his jaw straining boldly in the same way Peeta's would. She misses his jaw. She misses him.

Suddenly, the prince's voice crackles in the compartment. "You mustn't tell anyone but him, Ms. Everdeen."

Her fingers fold into a cradle over her lap. "Of course."

"This is bigger than you," he continues, his voice possessing a sense of graveness she hadn't known he was capable of. "His union to Princess Madge isn't just a marriage. It's a coalition, an alliance – you mustn't interfere. After we arrive, and you tell him, quickly return to the carriage. If he offers to break up the marriage – which, knowing him, is unfortunately  _not_  out of the question – you must refuse. Our kingdom's bond with theirs depends on it."

Although his terms aren't ideal, she has no choice but to accept them. Seeing Peeta for a few minutes is a million times better than not seeing him at all.

Still, a string of curiosity begins to ribbon itself through her thoughts, and she pins her eyes to her shoes as she asks, "Why are you doing this?"

Her voice is so quiet that she assumes, for a moment, he hasn't heard her. But after a long pause, he inhales.

"If there's one thing I can hold my brother accountable for, it's his virtue." Rye gives her a soft, sad smile. "He wouldn't give himself away to someone who didn't mean the world to him. So, he deserves to know."

Her cheeks blaze. She nods, but her eyes remain glued to her toes.

The carriage bobbles a bit over a tract of rocky terrain, and they fall silent again for several moments. He sighs. She crosses her ankles. He scratches his brow. She gulps.

And then, Rye sighs.

"He must've loved you a lot."

The words are enough to send a brilliant pang of heat lancing through her ribs. Her lashes flutter as their eyes meet, and she tries to smile at him, but her lips feel like clay.

* * *

The air tastes different upon arrival, and she has herself half-convinced it's because Peeta's here, although it's probably just the shift in altitude. The sky beyond their carriage stretches a milky gold in prelude to the looming sunset; it's Peeta's favorite time of day, she remembers.

She wonders if she'll be able to enjoy one final sunset with him.

Their stallions tug the carriage over the cobblestone, bringing them around to the front of the palace. Prince Rye helps Katniss down from the car, and immediately she's overwhelmed by the sheer size of the turrets. The castle's nearly twice the size of the one she grew up in, with vanilla walls veined with flowering vines. To think Peeta's inside, somewhere.  _Her_  Peeta.

Rye keeps her close to his side, announcing himself to the guards, who pull apart the massive wooden gates to allow their entrance. One of the men leads them down the front hall, and Katniss feels her bones chill. Shadows glaze the corridor, and even though the ceilings are higher and the walls are decorated with pearl-like lights, this place feels so much less friendly than the Mellarks' palace. Maybe it's because it's unfamiliar. Or perhaps it's something else.

They're taken to the grand hall, which is hollowed out by the remnants of afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows, highlighting the dust motes that swirl in the air. Katniss watches the way the air moves around them as their escort murmurs something to a servant, who jets off in another direction.

They wait in silence, both examining the hall from their spots on the runner. She's not sure who's been summoned to greet them – could it be Peeta? Her head snaps in the direction of the entryway, the violent pulsing in her chest taking off in anticipation of his arrival. It could be a mere moment before they're together again. She'll have to keep her cool – she reminds herself of this, and squares her shoulders, preparing herself for him.

Movement in the corner of her eye draws her attention, and her neck snaps in the direction of another entryway, her heart flying in her throat.

And then she deflates. It's the princess.

And then she  _really_  deflates.

The girl is absolutely radiant.

"Hello, Rye," she coos, her silky voice supplementing the coy smile on her lips. She holds out her arms, accepting her brother-in-law in a warm hug, and Katniss immediately wants to shrink into nothingness.

Compared to this girl, Katniss is nothing. Her own threadbare gown, hollow cheeks, and braid which looks like it's been through a blender, are no match for Princess Madge's divine glow. She's beautiful in every way imaginable – in her dress, her rosy cheeks, her dimpled grin, her corn silk hair, her gentle curves, her  _everything_  – and Katniss can't imagine how, after two months of marriage, Peeta could ever want anything but her.

Her hands fly to the imperceptible swell of her stomach, wishing she could melt into the rug.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Madge asks, her hand remaining of Rye's elbow. And it kills Katniss, because even when the princess's eyes flicker to her, her smile doesn't falter. She has no idea. No idea that this pitiable girl before her is carrying her husband's child. "And who may you be, Miss?"

"She's my handmaiden," Rye answers easily, leaving Katniss wondering if he'd prepared the label in advance. "It's been too long since I last saw my brother; I'm sorry for leaving you no notice. It was an impulsive decision, really."

Katniss wonders if she's imagining the wavering of the princess's smile, in the same way the light of an electric bulb will flicker near the end of its functionality, or if there really is a shift.

But once Madge weaves her fingers together over her abdomen, Katniss knows she hasn't made a mistake.

"My deepest apologies, Rye – Peeta hasn't been feeling well. He hasn't allowed any visitors in days."

She feels something inside her plummet like a cannonball off the edge of a ship, creating a magnificent tide that drowns her. She opens her mouth to beg for answers, but thankfully, Rye arrives there first, allowing Katniss to remember she has no right to speak.

"What do you mean? Is he ill?"

The princess swallows hard, her fingers combing at the roots of her hair.

"In a way, I suppose." She flattens her palm on her quickly-reddening cheek. "He's not happy here, Rye. I don't know how to help him. He tried too hard to pretend he was alright for the first two months, but in the past week, he's been unable to even look at me. How am I to make things better? He's only allowing the help into his room – I mean, he hasn't  _denied_  me entrance, or anyone for the matter, but it so clearly upsets him when I try to speak to him! He doesn't want me, Rye."

Her pitch has raised nearly an octave by the time she cuts herself off, her eyes shimmering with tears. She swabs her thumb underneath her lower lid, turning her head to the side.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "I just—I feel like  _I'm_  hurting him. He tried to deny it for too long, which I think made it worse. The doctors say he's heartsick, and have offered him medication, but he doesn't want it. He doesn't want anything, Rye."

Through the corner of his eye, the prince shoots an expectant glance Katniss's way.

"I would like to speak with him," Rye says, still gentle even in his resolution. "If only for a few minutes."

Madge's palms tug down on the flesh of her cheeks. "He hasn't spoken in days."

"There's a first time for everything." Rye touches her shoulder, and then nods to Katniss. "Where can we find him?"

* * *

The servant guides them through the castle, and with each step, Katniss can feel more thunder rolling through her veins, her entire body numb and alive all the same. She tries to ease the trembling, but she can't seem to grasp hold of her muscles or nerves; every inch of her system is wired wrong, disconnected from her brain.

As they near, she feels Rye's palm on the back of her arm. He says nothing, which is just as well.

Finally, after what feels like a mile-long journey and, simultaneously, a split second, they arrive outside his door. The servant leaves them alone in the corridor, and when he's disappeared around the bend, Katniss grasps hold of the wall.

"I can't go in there," she pants.

Rye's jaw is set. "You have to, Katniss."

"But what if he's angry with me? I—I won't be able to handle his rejection. I'd rather just not know."

"That isn't true."

It isn't. He's right. She needs to see him, needs to know he's alive, needs to know his eyes are still blue and his heart is still warm and his dimples are still very much dimply.

Her nails scratch against the hard stone. "You go in first."

"I'll go in when you're finished. It surely isn't missing _me_  that's left him debilitated."

She clenches her jaw. Could this be her fault? The heartsickness? She hadn't wanted him to disintegrate into this. She'd wanted the best for him – as long as "the best" could coexist with him remembering her.

He had wanted the same for her, of course. But she hadn't done him one better. Although she tried, really  _tried_  to heal, loving him had incapacitated her, too. His absence had left a hollow imprint in her soul, one she thought she could work around, but ultimately it absorbed all nearby divisions like a black hole. Her entire cosmos was left barren because of him, even though that was never his intention.

She wonders if this holds true for him, too.

She wonders if, now, with everything holding true but nothing holding together, he'll let it all go and hold her, hold her, hold her.

She swallows the panic, nods at Rye, and grasps the cast iron door handle with quivering fingers. She squeezes. She pushes. She slips inside.

Once she sees him, everything in her coils into a wad of incarnate nostalgia, throbbing at the sight of his silhouette stretching the bedsheets. His back is to the door, and to her; he must not have heard her enter. Or, if he had, he doesn't react.

The ache from his absence is suddenly replaced by a thousand types of hunger, all directed toward him. She watches the slight slope of his shoulders, rising and falling and rising and falling, his breath so enchanting in its realness.

Real.

He's real.

She chokes back a sob, tensing her body to try to ward off the trembling, but nothing works. So, she attempts to call out his name. But her tongue has been vetoing the shape of it for so long now that she can't produce its sound, which shatters her in an entirely new way. It's been too long. And, all too soon, it'll be too long all over again.

Will he remember the shape of  _her_  name?

She paces through the chamber, her shins carving into the edge of the mattress, making it shift underneath him. But he doesn't move. He remains at the other end of the bed, just three feet away but also light years beyond her. The smell of his sheets slowly rises to her, and it serves as a calming agent to her hyperactive nerves, soothing her and propelling her forward.

She crawls up against the head of the bed, sitting on the pillows beside his shoulders. His breaths stir, but he remains still. She wonders if he thinks she's Madge. She wonders if he'll be grateful that she's not.

She wonders if he'll be grateful that she came. That, somehow, she managed to find him for this one final time.

Her hands stray from her lap, splaying out over the curve of his shoulder. The warmth of his skin sculpts through the fabric of his shirt and of the sheets, and she feels torrents of electricity tethering her to the youngest prince, because the touch of him is nothing short of ecstasy.

She allows her fingers to roam upward, gently weaving in his curls. She brushes through them over and over, savoring and memorizing the sensation yet again.

Once more, she tries to speak. A greeting, a promise, his name, anything,  _anything,_  but all that strums through her throat is silence.

She doesn't know what possesses her to do it. She's not even sure where the idea originates, but suddenly it's grasping hold of her, hijacking her body and bringing her to life.

Before she knows what's happening, she's singing to him.

It's the first song he ever heard her sing, so it seems fitting that it'll be the last as well. The melody filters through her bloodstream, and dances on her tongue; she sings to him softly, but surely, as she brushes her fingers through his hair. She imagines she'll do this for their child, too. When it's just the little tyke and Katniss – she'll give him or her the lullaby as well, the one that brought its parents together in every way.

She feels him stir underneath her hand, his shoulders flexing below the sheets. He snuggles his back against the bow of her knee, possibly subconsciously. She can feel the heat of his back against her leg, and it coaxes her downward; she slips underneath the blankets, flattening her stomach against his back, her limbs twining around his warm body as she continues to sing for him.

After three verses, the song fades in the back of her throat, a calm quiet settling over their bodies. He's still, neither reeling her in nor pushing her away. She wonders if he's even awake.

And then,  _then_ , with no warning at all, he's turning in the bed, rolling to face her, his arms suddenly on her waist, or her arm, and his eyes locking in with hers. Blue, blue, blue.

His fingers braid into the fabric of her gown.

"My little songbird," he whispers, his nose brushing hers, his breath brushing her lips. "You're not real."

Her eyes are stinging, watering; she nods slightly, pressing her forehead to his. "I'm real. I'm here. I love you."

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

She watches his face shift from confusion to disbelief to something else, something near-magical, and suddenly he's kissing her, his mouth an old, overdue friend inviting hers forward. He tastes a little like joy, and a little like morning breath, and a lot like home.

"How?" he asks in between kisses, his body contouring hers elastically. He feels perfect. He is perfect.

She gasps for air, and then slides her tongue over his. "I don't know," she admits. "A lot of luck." His teeth drag over her bottom lip. "And Rye."

He draws back, brows knit. "Rye?"

"Finnick found him. Annie found Finnick. Hazelle found Annie. Hazelle also found me."

"Found—who's Hazelle?"

He's very clearly disoriented, and she wishes she had all the time to explain, but she must preserve the quickly-waning minutes she has left. She chooses to allocate that time toward more important things, like kissing him, and figuring out how to tell him the reason she came.

"She's been taking care of me." Her mouth seals over his jaw, his glorious jaw. "Her son taught me how to hunt." Her palms brace over his chest. "I needed a place to stay." She finds his mouth, slack in confusion.

He doesn't push her away, per se – how could he? – but he curls his fingers over the top of her shoulders, holding her back just long enough for induced clarification.

"You needed a place to stay? W-what about the palace?"

Concern swamps his features, and he holds her close but far enough to look at her, and she wants to kiss him senseless.

But, she supposes the truth takes precedence.

"Your mother kicked me out."

His eyes grow wide, his already sunken cheeks – when was the last time he ate? – growing pale.

"Did she find out about us?" he whispers.

Katniss doesn't know how to respond, since she's unsure if the justification of her dismissal is better or worse than his assumption. But, that's for him to decide.

She's done stalling.

Her eyelids squeeze shut, and she snakes her hands under the sheets to find his, her thin fingers locking perfectly between his thick ones. Her palms squeeze his.

"She found out I'm pregnant, Peeta."

There's his name. His perfect, beautiful name, tattooing itself on her tongue back where it rightfully belongs. It has a lovely aftertaste, one delicious enough to wall her in, blocking out Peeta's reaction. He could be screaming right now, or pushing her off the bed, and she wouldn't know, because she loves his name too damn much.

But, he's not pushing her away. The touch of his palms cupping her face slices through her barriers, and her eyelids flutter open to find wide blue ones monopolizing her line of vision, which gives way to the taste of his soft lips curving against hers, and the feeling of his body trembling as it pulls her in.

"What are we going to do?" he whispers, the concern in his voice very adamantly contradicting his avid kisses.

She notes that he used the word "we." Not her, not him, but  _them_.

"I don't know," she says back, curling her fists against his sides.

The look he fixes her with expresses his accord, but his hands on her waist and her back implant a sense of calm in her bloodstream, and she relaxes against him. She doesn't know what they are to do, how they'll confront the world beyond their closed door – his brother, his wife, his kingdom, his  _mother_  – but she knows the way in which they'll do it: Together.

And as his forehead leans on hers, with the pale orange light from the setting sun floating through the open window, she lets herself breathe, because it'll be alright.

It has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 is on its way, so hang tight.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the third part of the story that was only supposed to be a one-shot. Three cheers for excess.
> 
> A million, billion thanks to the wonderful Chelzie, who is both a flawless beta and a lovely friend. Without her, this installment would be a mosh pit of typos. Also, shout-out to the ever-so-fabulous loving-mellark for the gorgeous banner. The bird has a little crown and everything! How cute is that?
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the chapter! Chelzie told me to put in a tissue warning, so just grab a box of Kleenex, and we'll all get through this together.

* * *

 

When they emerge from his room, their fingers are cemented together and entirely unwilling to part. Prince Rye is propped up against the opposite wall, his eyes growing wider and softer as he takes in his brother. Within moments, they're bolted in a bone-crushing hug.

Katniss can barely hear Peeta whisper, "Thank you for bringing her here."

When they pull apart, Rye  _really_  seems to take in his brother's appearance – sunken cheeks, shell-shaped purple shadows under his eyes, lost muscle mass – and he braces his jaw.

"What has happened to you?"

The brittleness in his tone makes Peeta turn the color of laundered bedsheets. On instinct, his fingers wander back to Katniss's arm, ghosting over the tender flesh of her wrist. She missed his constant need to touch her. She's grateful that, unlike most other things, that part of him has remained the same.

"We can't speak here," he says in a low voice. Then his eyebrow cocks. "The roof?"

* * *

The turret's floor space isn't very impressive. She assumes it's only intended to hold a gunman or two in the case of an attack on the kingdom, but there's enough room for the three of them. She crouches down against one of the cement blocks to shield herself from the cold, folding herself up like parchment. There's been a significant temperature drop, which has brought in a brutal wind and an army of storm clouds from the west. The sunset is entirely buried. Katniss imagines their time up here is limited.

Peeta comes to stand by Katniss while Rye leans against the opposite side of the curve. All eyes are directed to the youngest prince, whose gaze is brilliant but hollow. They wait.

"I'm seventeen," he finally says, his already-fragile voice breaking on the last syllable. Suddenly he's no longer a prince nor a man, just a desperate child filling out much larger skin.

Rye scratches a line over his scalp. "They shouldn't have made you come here," he sighs. "They should've chosen me. Or they should've waited."

But Peeta's shaking his head. "It doesn't matter anymore." He shoves the heels of his palms into the sockets of his eyes. "I'm here now. I—I have to figure this out. It's my responsibility."

In spite of the finality of his words, she can see the weight this burden carries, carving out his flesh and robbing the pigment from his skin and eyes. He's a sweet kid, a smart kid, but he's not ready for any of this. Not rule, not marriage, and especially not being a father. All Katniss has done by coming here is thumbtack yet another brick to his already devastating supply.

Rye takes a step inward.

"Maybe—look, I know this is difficult, but maybe you should speak with Madge."

Peeta's face whips up. His cheeks are pale. Katniss wants to cuddle him and warm the life back into him, but she can't pull herself from the cement blocks.

"No," Peeta whispers.

"Look, she won't be angry at you—"

" _Exactly_ ," Peeta hisses, curling his fingers against his palms. This turns his knuckles white. "She doesn't deserve to be dragged into this. She's tried so hard to make this easier for me and has been nothing but kind. I can't repay her by confessing that the reason I can't love her is because I'm in love with someone else. Who's  _pregnant_."

Katniss's hands move to her belly, the gesture almost intuitive.

"But she deserves to understand why her husband can't get out of bed." Rye's eyes flash darker, his shoulders growing rigid, lips curling. Katniss feels her muscles contract.

She shouldn't have come, she realizes. She's just making things more difficult – for Peeta and his wife, for Peeta and Rye, for Peeta and his kingdom. For everyone. This was a mistake.

The two brothers remain static on opposite sides of the hatch, mirror images of canines waiting to pounce. This isn't Peeta. The Peeta who Katniss knew was always calm, gentle, and poised.  _Not_  aggressive. Not angry.

So she pushes off the floor, reaching out to touch Peeta's elbow. Her touch is all it takes; the contact alone drains the stiffness from his body, and she watches as his muscles sag like thawing dough. He turns to look at her, the blues in his eyes paling.

"What have they done to you?" she chokes out, barely. The sky growls above them. A crow squawks its warning cry.

These words are enough to break him, making his skeleton and his resolve disintegrate as he covers his face with his hands. She moves to hold him, threading her fingers in his hair, and he tucks his face against her neck. His cheeks are hot and a little wet.

"I don't know what to do," he says, his voice muffled against her skin.

Katniss looks beyond him to Rye, who's ducking toward the hatch. "I'm going to find Madge," he says as he looks to Peeta expectantly, as if anticipating a protest, but nothing comes. Soon, he has disappeared, leaving Katniss to comfort the boy she shattered in the first place.

* * *

Madge arrives just after the storm hits. Katniss has managed to drive Peeta from the roof and into the small space below, their skin iridescent with raindrops. Thunder barks above the hatch, a few droplets leaking through the seal, and she moves Peeta against the wall.

"I have to tell her," Peeta croaks just before Madge comes. The rawness in his voice makes Katniss's lungs feel like tar pits.

She sweeps his curls from his face, folding herself into his side. Then there's the shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, sparkling off the cobblestone walls. Katniss pulls away from Peeta as the silhouettes of shadows dancing against the orange glow grow bigger, bigger, bigger.

"I've found Madge," Rye pants as he reaches the top of the steps. Only a few seconds later, the princess emerges. Her gown's train ripples over the wooden planks, and her fingers are folded anxiously over her belly. Her eyes are wide. So unsuspecting.

When she sees Peeta, however, a relieved smile flits over her features; she bounds across the small space, taking him in her arms. Katniss tries not to grimace, pointing her gaze at the ceiling. Her cheeks feel like fire. This cavity smells like moss and rotting lumber.

"You're feeling better, dear?" Her hands cup his cheeks.

"I—I don't really know, I—"

"Let's get you something to eat, yes?" When Katniss finally marshals the courage to peek, she sees the woman's blue eyes sparkling. Madge reaches for his hand. "I'm sure Rooba can make you something wonderful. She could have it prepared in—"

" _Madge_."

She halts, her brows lifting, lips pursed. Katniss looks from the princess to Rye, whose face has flushed a patchy pink, possibly from running up so many flights of stairs or perhaps from anxiety over what's about to come.

Peeta pinches the bridge of his nose, then lets his hands flop down to his sides.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

Madge must not understand the gravity of his apology – she merely cocks her head to the side as if she's shocked to hear those words. "Don't be, dear. It'll all be better soon."

She tries to pull him toward the staircase, but he doesn't budge.

"I don't think it will," he says quietly.

There's something in his tone that makes Katniss's heart clench, the organ feeling like it's folding in on itself; it triggers something in Madge, too, because there's a shift of hue in her cheeks as her shoulders grow rigid, her hand falling away from Peeta's.

Her eyes flicker toward Katniss. There's no anger there, no suspicion, just…  _defeat._

"What's—what's going on?"

Peeta's jaw strains out, the tendons in his neck flexing as he squeezes his eyes shut. Katniss watches his hands ball into fists, the tension shooting from his wrists and up through his shoulders, neck, face.

She wants the floor to swallow her whole.

"Katniss is pregnant," Peeta says.

His voice is oddly calm, disproportionately counteracting the stiffness wiring his muscles. It would frighten Katniss if her panic wasn't reserved for Madge's reaction.

All eyes in the shadowy corridor are on Peeta's wife as his admission settles, melting in with the instrumental of thunder and rain on the plywood. But her confusion soon morphs into horror, and her collar tenses as she tries to suck in a breath.

When Madge looks at her, Katniss expects daggers to be shooting her way. And maybe they are, in some respects. But not the blazing, jagged sort she anticipates; instead, they cut a much cleaner incision, straight through her chest. Suddenly, Katniss wants to take it all back. Although she knows next to nothing about Peeta's wife, watching the poor girl crumble after not having done anything wrong has its domino effect, knocking her flat.

"You—you're certain?" is all she says, her voice wavering in its pathetic attempt to remain strong.

Peeta nods slowly, carving the knuckle of his index finger into his temple. "It was before, I promise. I… I never meant to hurt you."

But Madge is cupping her own neck, shaking her head. "It's—I know you wouldn't, but—" She chokes out some sort of strangled cry, and then swallows the sound as if startled by it. "Oh my god."

"Madge—"

"I need to go," she whispers, covering her mouth like she's about to be sick. And then she's spinning around, fleeing back down the staircase.

Peeta's face is the color of lily petals. His cheeks look like stone.

Katniss reaches for his hand, and although he doesn't resist, his fingers feel like ice.

* * *

Two separate guest rooms are prepared for Katniss and Prince Rye, in between which rests a small parlor. Long after the sun has plummeted and the storm has conquered the sky, Katniss drifts into this area to find Rye standing by a bookshelf, his fingertips skimming the manuscripts' leather spines. He acknowledges Katniss's entrance with a stiff nod. Nothing else.

She feels hopelessly out of place here. Being treated like a houseguest is far beyond what she deserves, especially after what she's done. Everything in her body feels taught and angry with her; she ducks into a chair, waiting for the feeling to return to her systems.

"I shouldn't have come here."

She hears Rye sigh, although he doesn't turn to look at her. "Maybe not."

Her thin knees click together. She looks down at her trembling hands.

"I just—I thought things would fall into place, you know? I thought if I saw him once more, I'd have closure. And I'd be doing the right thing. But—I've messed things up, haven't I?"

At first, she thinks Rye's blocked her out entirely, because a minute passes with no response. But without warning he pivots, leaning his elbow on the wooden ledge of the shelf.

"Things were a mess before you showed up, Katniss. You made Peeta confront what he's been trying to bottle up for months."

"But he hates me now." Her voice sounds like a weak sparrow's chirp.

She doesn't have to look to Rye to feel his frown digging into her flesh.

"Ms. Everdeen," he warns, his tone authoritative like a commanding father's. "You understand absolutely nothing about my brother if you don't know that when he loves, he does so with all he is. He's confused, exhausted, and more stressed than anyone his age should have to be. But he's not angry with you. With himself, certainly. But definitely not with you."

Katniss swallows, then opens her mouth to respond – to thank him? To apologize? – but he pads off to his room and disappears behind the door before she can get out a word.

* * *

She's neither been given a bed this comfortable before nor managed to remain so restless for an entire night, flopping like a dying fish between the sheets. The fabric feels too soft to be so cold; the bed's too wide to be so empty. And every time she thinks about how Peeta is only a few stories above her, yet entirely closed off to her company, her heart wrings itself out.

When morning comes, her body sags like a sopping garment. She's supposed to leave in an hour. She doesn't think Peeta will come to say goodbye.

Revisiting yesterday's events, it doesn't make sense how things crumbled this quickly. When it had been just her and Peeta, curling up in his bed as she told him she was pregnant, they'd both been terrified, but  _united_  – they would do this together, they had decided.

But the second they left his room, their harmony dissolved, leaving Katniss back to where she began. Or maybe even a step before that. At least preceding her visit, the possibility of resolution had existed. Now, with her fragile hopes shattered, she'll have to return home with a baby in her belly and no ties to its father. A father who's supposed to love her, according to Rye. But each second of his absence makes her doubt rise.

She's standing before her room's looking glass, pleating her hair with trembling, tired fingers when she hears a soft knock on the door. Her body stills, and her heart flutters.  _Peeta_? She doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she can't stop the electric current pulsing through her system as she bounds to the door, taking the handle in her fist and throwing it open.

Her heart plummets contracting into a painful wad of tissue and capillaries.

"Y-Your Highness?" Katniss stammers, curtsying pathetically for Princess Madge, who stands on the opposite side of the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed red, but her eyes glint with something that Katniss would think – if she didn't know better – resembled fear.

Madge's windpipe bobs under the pressure of her swallowing. "May I speak with you?"

"Uh, y-yeah." Her eyelids flutter a little and she scrambles backward to hold the door open. "By all means, please come in."

Madge smiles mutedly before stepping over the threshold, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. Her heartbeat stumbles in anticipation as she watches the princess slowly wade around the room, and Katniss tries to keep her hands from quivering. Madge is scoping out the decor, her fingers folded over her stomach, chin pointed up.

Then, finally, she pivots to face Katniss. And she stills.

"I went to speak with Peeta this morning," she begins. "And I found him sitting at his window, painting."

Katniss reacts with wide eyes, as if this should be a surprise. But how could it be one to her? She's devoted years to admiring the way his hands can manipulate a brush, watching him bring his colors to life with gentle, easy strokes.

So, all she says is, "Oh?"

Madge looks to her feet.

"He hasn't painted in a month, Ms. Everdeen."

Katniss feels her stomach coil.

"Oh."

"And—" Her eyes flicker back to Katniss, the blue spangling with an impossible combination of warmth and devastation. "He was painting you, holding a child."

_Oh._

As Katniss's calves flatten against the bed, she steadies herself by gripping the mahogany bedpost. Her face feels enflamed, her stomach doing wild vaults, and she opens her mouth to speak, but what is there to say? Is there  _anything_  to say?

She looks to Madge, completely lost.

And then, the woman closes her eyes.

"I want you to stay," Madge says.

The birds chirping beyond the castle walls fall silent. Static fills the room. Katniss wonders if she's dead. Yes, she's probably dead.

"Stay?" she, somehow, manages to squeak. "As in—"

"Here. Stay in our palace." A drop of water squeezes from Madge's closed lids, collecting on her golden lashes. "Peeta… he needs  _you_. And I can't bear watching him wither any further, not when there's something I can do about it."

Katniss tries to find the joke. There must be something she's missing. "I—"

"The palace can always use another maid," Madge continues. "I know it isn't glamorous, and I wish I could promise you more. But… Peeta's in line for the throne. He must stay. You might as well, too, if it will keep him alive."

Katniss pinches her skin. She isn't dreaming.

"I— _thank you_ , Your Highness," she whispers, knowing it's not enough, because nothing could ever compensate for this gift, but it's all she can give now.

The two ladies stand across from each other, silence coating the room in an elastic sheen, one that makes the space seem much smaller, pushing them together. Katniss can hardly breathe.

"You'll still be married though, right?" she whispers.

"Yes. We must be."

"Good." There's a long pause, in which the birds begin to sing again. "And the baby?"

"It'll have to be a secret." She bites her lip. "But—it's Peeta's child. If you're careful, he… he can still see it.  _Should_  still see it."

She feels like all of her future's jagged, uncertain edges are beginning to smooth; although not everything is resolved, it's less threatening, more inviting, more…  _possible_.

Still, she has one more question.

"Please, forgive me for being blunt, but…" The looming words sear her tongue, and Madge's eyes flutter open, focusing on Katniss. "Why are you doing this?"

Madge sighs, shrugs, and then replies, as if it's such a simple conclusion:

"I'd rather see him happy with someone else than not happy at all."

There's something in the certainty, in the determination of her words that makes Katniss feel like a tiny dust particle on the backdrop of the galaxy, that makes her skin shrink over her bones, and suddenly it all makes sense.

"You love him, too," Katniss whispers. It isn't a question.

Madge gives her a sad smile. "He loves you." She tugs her sleeves down, nods at Katniss, and pads to the door.

But, before she parts, she turns.

"So should you be the one to tell him the good news, or should I?"

* * *

She passes Rye in the corridor on her way to Peeta's room. He gives her a soft nod.

"He needs to see you, Katniss," Rye says. "He's not saying it, but it's painfully obvious."

She thanks him and briefly considers whether she should tell him about Madge's offer, but she figures the princess will when she sees Rye off.

The journey there seems to take a thousand years, but when she finally reaches his room, she finds the door already cracked open. Against her better judgment, she slips in without knocking, her heartbeat painting wild strokes against her ribcage. She sees him standing beside his easel at the window, his shoulders framed by the open panes. Outside, the sky's a milky lavender in its post-storm dawn, cool humidity seeping in.

She breathes it all in. The air, the aftertaste of rain, Peeta. Everything.

"I hope you don't mind a little company," she says, her voice spanning the room in threads of honey.

She doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his shoulders ease down. He twists around, his expression illustrating a painful mix of exhaustion and liberation.

"I didn't think you would come," he says, his voice breaking.

The corners of her lips perk, just slightly. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

His chest caves a little, as if he thinks her words are some sick joke. And then his eyes narrow, his lips whitening.

"Let's run away, Katniss," he whispers almost inaudibly, as if the walls can't be trusted.

Her throat tightens. "Peeta—"

"Right now. I know where the service door is, and there aren't any guards there." He's closer now. His eyes are wild. "If we're fast, we can make it. The woods are right there, we can just run for it—"

But she shakes her head. "That isn't necessary, Peeta."

"It is if we want to be together," he says. "I've been thinking through the logistics all night. It'd be hard, Katniss, but we could do it. For us. For… for the baby. We can be together."

Half of her is flattered that he'd sacrifice virtually anything for her, while the other half's anxious over her impending announcement. Her hands reach for his, and instead of ice-cold fingers like the night before, they're warm and welcoming.

Her heart flutters. She tries to smile.

"There's another way," she says, falling in love with the glint of devotion in his eyes.  _He really does want her, doesn't he?_  "I spoke with Madge today. About you. About us. And… and she offered me a position."

Peeta's face twists up in confusion, as if she's just spoken in tongues. "W-what?"

Her palm squeezes his.

"I'm staying here, Peeta." Her eyes sting. "That is, if you—if you want me to."

The dazed glimmer in his eyes remains lodged there for a few more seconds, but then, before she can even register the shift, she suddenly finds herself smothered in his iron grasp. Cinnamon and honey and oil paint and  _Peeta_  waltz across her senses, masking the spongey scent of mildew and the sounds of songbirds from beyond his open window. His face is hot on her neck, and she thinks she may be crying into his shirt, but at this point, she's too numb to be certain.

All she can do is hold him, too, her arms winding around his core and vowing to never let go, not until the last possible second.

After several delicious moments, he pulls back just enough to look at her, the resolute blue she fell in love with glowing, growing, and turning her core into sunlight. "Is this real?"

"Very, very real," she giggles, feeling wetness stinging in the corners of her eyes. "And it beats running off into the woods."

He chuckles, wiping his eyes. "I—I don't know what to do."

"You could kiss me," she offers.

And so the prince obeys his maiden.

* * *

While Peeta and Madge go to see Rye off, Katniss is escorted to the maids' quarters. The compartment to which she's been assigned looks more like a bomb shelter, whereas the one she'd grown up in resembled a warehouse. For now, she can't decide which she prefers.

Instead of cots, the maids share bunk beds. Katniss is given the bottom of the one against the back wall. Unthinkingly, she sits down on the mattress; the bed's metal frame shifts, and suddenly, the bunkmate she hadn't even realized was there is dipping her head from the top bed.

"Who do you think you are?" the woman asks, her brown eyes narrowing, spiked hair hanging like poorly-dyed stalactites.

Being blunt herself, Katniss appreciates the girl's frankness. She offers her name with respect, but no smile. She can save the congeniality for someone else.

In response, the girl's brows crinkle, as if she's calculating whether or not Katniss is to be deemed tolerable. After a few moments, her hand shoots down.

"Johanna Mason." Her palm's warm to the touch, her handshake firm. "If you sleep-talk, or move around too much, I know where the chloroform is kept and I'm not afraid to use it."

After settling in, Katniss spends her first day touring the castle, the head maid – a firm but kind woman by the name of Paylor – showing her the ropes. But Katniss can't bring herself to focus, constantly checking around bends for her prince. She'll see other workers, and occasionally a guest, but her sunshine-haired boy remains hidden away.

She wonders if this is how it'll always be. Like in the palace where they grew up, in which they were forced to feign unfamiliarity, only now it's even worse. Instead of being scolded for chatting with a maid, Peeta's entire cover could be blown.

Their secret is such a fragile, frightening thing.

The daylight hours flurry by without a single Peeta sighting, and by the time the sun sets on her new home, her chest is aching for him. She readies for bed in the nightgown she's been given, grey and crisp and ill-fitting. She wishes she could sleep in one of his shirts.

While Katniss is wired awake, the other five maids sharing her bunker doze around ten o'clock. Once their snoring steadies, she creeps out of bed, slipping from her quarters.

Her trek is cautious, involving ducking around corners and silent footsteps, but she reaches Peeta's room within ten minutes. The door is closed, so she knocks softly; when she receives no reply, she lets herself in.

But the room is empty. The sheets are made.

Her heartbeat thrums in her chest – where has Peeta gone? Her paranoid mind whirrs to life, pumping life into each worst case scenario.  _They found out already. Madge wants him back. He was sent home with Rye. He fell out a window._

Her breathing has just spiked into shallow pants when she hears the door squeal, and she whirls around to see a head of golden curls duck through the threshold.

Before he can even get the door closed all the way, she's snared him in her arms.

"I was so worried," she whispers against his neck. He finishes sealing the lock and then reciprocates her iron-clad hold, tangling his arms around her.

His breath is warm and inviting. "I'm sorry for frightening you."

When she's done confirming his presence, she pulls back slightly, threading her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Where were you?"

Her question makes Peeta's expression cloud.

"I—I didn't get the chance to tell you." He ducks his forehead against hers. "I had to go back to the master bedroom. The one that I share with… with Madge."

He says her name like an apology.

"Why?" Katniss asks, her chest panging a little, although she isn't angry. She can't be angry. She's well aware that most things are far beyond her control, and instead, she should be grateful for simply being here.

"My excuse for having a separate room was that I was ill," he explains, brushing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "And we—we've decided we need to keep up the pretense that we're happy. It'll lower suspicions. So… I'll have to stay with her." And then he swallows. "But I can meet you here most nights, and we can sleep, if only for a little while. I want to see you."

It isn't perfect, but nothing's perfect, and she accepts it as enough.

"Okay," she concedes, pulling back just enough to look him over. Her hands skim from his hips up past his shoulders, cupping his jaw. She sweeps her thumb over the stubble there, and she wonders, briefly, how it'd feel against her own cheek, her neck, stomach, or the skin between her thighs.

Hopefully, the dim lighting cloaks her blush.

"I missed this," she murmurs.

"Like hell," he affirms. "Please, lie down with me. I've been sleeping alone for too long."

When he curls up with her beneath the blanket, she melts against him, savoring the way the contours of his chest seem to lock in so naturally with hers, their legs tangling easily under the comforter. She rests her head on his arm, gazing up at him through the dark.

"You feel like a dream," he whispers.

"I'm real," she says. "This is real. It's you and I, now."

The lines in his face smooth beautifully. "A prince and his little songbird," he murmurs.

And then his lips find hers.

It all feels so easy again, so  _natural_ ; this time, Rye's not waiting beyond the locked door, and neither of them are being shipped to another kingdom come morning. So, while they only have a few more hours before he must return to Madge, they really have forever and a day, and each other, which is all that's relevant.

He holds the back of her neck to anchor her to him, and she runs her hands underneath his shirt, feeling the flat spread of his stomach. He trembles under her touch, a soft moan bubbling in the back of his throat, and it spikes her confidence, because  _she's_  the one who's making him feel this way.

Soon his fingers move down to her waist, gently digging into the flesh there; she stifles a yelp when he flips her onto her back, moving in between her splayed legs.

His eyes are gleaming, his nose skimming hers. He grasps the bottom trim of her gown.

"May I?"

She helps him remove the garment, leaving her skin tingling in static. There's a soft rumple of fabric as he drops the gown to the floor, and then he's over her again, gently suckling her collarbone. With fingers threaded in his hair, she holds him to her as he freckles her flesh with kisses.

"I missed the way your skin tastes," he says with a nearly-primal growl, and ice shavings feather up her spine. His lips move to her breast, which he gently takes into his mouth, eliciting a moan from her raw throat.

His stomach is pressing up at the juncture of her thighs, which makes heat electrify her belly. She's thrilled with the idea of where this is heading; the last time had been a measure of their goodbye. This would be their new hello, slightly delayed but entirely final.

He kisses his way from her breast to her sternum, and then downward until he reaches her belly. He pulls one hand from the mattress and palms a gentle, sweeping crescent just below her navel, landing on the tender spot under her left ribs.

"A baby." It's the awe in his voice that makes her realize he's had such little time to process this. Over a month has passed since she first found out, but some days, it's difficult for even her to swallow – what must  _he_  be thinking, after merely twenty-four hours?

So, she asks him.

He blinks up at her, his thumb grazing her belly button. "Are you keeping it?"

"I guess so." She watches the way his golden curls flop over his head as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to her stomach. "Are you angry?"

"Because you're pregnant?" He lifts an eyebrow incredulously. "I—I couldn't be upset with you, not even if I wanted to. I'm just…. It's—it's a lot to consider." Then, his expression colors with guilt. "To be honest, I'm a little terrified."

"Really?"

"Actually—" He bites his lip—"more than a little."

A heavy, leaden feeling that she hadn't even realized was resting on her chest lifts, leaving plenty of room for bursts of air to fill her lungs. It's such a relief to know she isn't alone.

"Me, too," she whispers. "I'm not—I haven't really allowed myself to think about what'll happen when it's born."

He nuzzles her stomach with his cheek, the scrape of his stubble sending tingles trickling through her system. Her toes curl.

"Well, we have time to figure that out." She starts a little when his fingers wind around her underwear, drawing back to pull the garment from her waist. "But, in the meantime," he whispers, returning to the triangular section of the mattress between her legs to hook his arms around her thighs, "I want you to sing for me."

And when his mouth dips to engrave his devotion in her flesh, she does just that.

* * *

Too many of the cleaning jobs involve chemicals, fumes, and other things she  _shouldn't even be exposed to, let alone handling, because what about the baby, Katniss?_  So, she finds herself making a lateral move from the laundry room of the Mellarks' palace to the laundry room here. Besides, forging through inordinate amounts of dirty garments, bedsheets, towels, and so on has become second nature to her – her expertise is an added bonus.

Another added bonus is the dim lighting, the uneven clunking of machine blades, and the trickling water. It makes Peeta's occasional ten-minute visitations significantly safer, because no one can see hands pulling at hair, frenzied lips, or hear the soft sighs, knees banging against the hollow sides of machines, muffled giggles.

Although it's not perfect, it's better than anything she could've ever deserved.

She wonders how long this can last.

On a particularly average day five months into her pregnancy, Katniss is wadding up dirty clumps of laundry and shoving them into the machines as she waits for Peeta to arrive. He always comes to her around this time. This is when they allow themselves to have fun, to be teenagers, pretending the outside world doesn't exist; on the other hand, the Peeta that steals into his old bedroom to meet his maiden at night is an entirely different boy – while his lovemaking may be slow and patient, he's also more somber, because that's when they force themselves to face reality. That's when they speak of the baby, and of Madge, and of power, and of the future.

But this,  _this_ , is when they let themselves fly free.

So her organs sink like stones in water and her skin feels like sheet metal when one, two, three hours have passed without a visit from her prince. Why didn't he show?

When she's reached a brief recess in her laundry cycles, she slips from the laundry room and ghosts through the corridors in search of Peeta. She finds the room he shares with Madge to be empty. She finds his old chamber empty, too. In the great hall, the King and Queen sit on their thrones, but neither he nor Madge are in their own.

He's not in the dining hall. He's not in the library. He's in none of the studies, none of the courtyards, none of the sunrooms.

When she flits through the kitchen, she overhears gossip from the waiting staff that Princess Madge has gone to see the apothecary. But for what?

She combs the palace a while longer, desperately and pathetically hoping she'll randomly run into him, that all will be well, and he'll have all the answers. But he's nowhere to be found, and her entire body feels like a hollow log.

Then, abruptly, her chest pangs as a thought flits through her head. She's unsure of how she's so certain, but regardless, she knows exactly where she'll find him.

She climbs the staircase, her skin bloating in the muggy air and weighing her down. But eventually, she reaches the top, her trembling fingers reaching for the hatch. With a loud cracking sound, it swings back, and she warily maneuvers herself through the opening, careful not to bobble her swollen belly – one of the maids, a mother of three, told her that the baby's currently about the size of a "spaghetti squash," whatever type of plant that is. When Katniss told Peeta this, he chuckled and kissed her belly, and made an awful pun about trying not to "squash" the baby. He was in a better mood, then.

But what she finds on the roof is nothing of the sort.

The crooked muscles in her heart begin to relax at the sight of him on the roof, but they immediately coil once she fully takes him in. He stands against a cement block, his broad shoulders cast in iron, hair wild and rippling in the wind. His silhouette is stone against the backdrop of rolling hills, green whispers and silver skies. He doesn't move even after he must hear her arrive. She wonders if he even knows it's her.

She steadies herself on her feet, shifting behind him. Her fingers lift, barely grazing the muscles corded over his right shoulder blade, but he remains entirely motionless. For a moment, she's convinced he's a marble statue.

And then, his throat clears.

"The King is demanding that Madge and I bear a child."

Katniss's vision blots. She grabs hold of one of the concrete slabs and vomits over the edge of the turret.

When she's done retching, the spaghetti-squash-thing feeling more like a leaden cannonball than a harmless fruit, she lets her grip on the concrete ease. Her body crumples backward slightly, her spine slanting into Peeta's chest. He must've moved behind her to hold her hair.

She feels his arms on her, his body trembling in tandem with hers. She turns, pressing her cheek to his chest, and he tangles his fingers at the roots of her braid, cupping her skull.

"I haven't—couldn't be with her in that way again, not since you came." His voice cracks against the shell of her ear.

"But you have to," she says, flattening in defeat. "It's unavoidable."

"There has to be another way."

"Not for everything." Fortune favored them once already. It'd be unwarranted for them to receive such luxury a second time. "Not for this."

He pulls back, his eyes digging into hers, guilt pouring like tempests from every inch of his body, and she's drowning, drowning, drowning.

She gulps for air.

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he whispers, and scrawled all over his expression is his anticipation of rejection.

There isn't anything to forgive, because there's nothing he can do about it.

But she still shatters all the same.

And there's nothing he can do about this, either.

* * *

She comes to their haven that night, finding the hollowness in the room to extend beyond a merely physical void. The vacancy cuts much deeper, and the moment she slips through the door, she can feel it settle into her bones until she, too, is left entirely empty.

She drifts to the window, gently pulling the panes open. The air palms her face, its touch momentary camouflage for her sunken hopes; she fools herself into believing that the open window will call him to her.

But she should've known he wouldn't come. After she left Peeta on the rooftop, she realized that Madge must've gone to the doctor to be given professional approval, or advice, even – and why would they wait after that? The King demanded a child from them. And his mandates don't have patience written into their bylaws.

She sprawls out on the bed, extending her hands and feet as far as they will reach. But the edge of the mattress rests far beyond the tips of her fingers and toes, and she decides that the extra space belongs to Peeta, and this isn't a place she's meant to be alone.

So, she pulls herself from the bed, hurrying from the room. She's back in her own bunk before she can let her mind run wild, before she can linger on Peeta with Madge, before she can think about what he's doing with her, how he's holding her, how he's kissing her, how he's filling the empty space in a bed that isn't hers, but is  _his_ , and his wife's, who loves him, and is allowed to have him, and is  _supposed_  to have him.

Katniss hopes that Madge, at least, remembered to open the window for him.

* * *

He doesn't come to visit her in the laundry room the following day. Even though she feels like she's been shoved down a garbage chute, her joints bruised and lungs crumpled, she still holds out hope that he'll come to the room tonight.

She arrives early, propping herself at the edge of the bed, her arms circling her stomach. There's a small comfort in having the baby so close, constantly warming her from the inside out. Whenever Peeta isn't here, he's still  _here_  – half of his genetics, half of him. It doesn't make everything suddenly alright, but it makes things a little more bearable.

She waits for several tortuous moments, her body growing tired and begging to lie down. But yesterday, she'd discovered that the bed was nothing but a sea of brittle blankets and pockets of cold air without him, and she wants no part in it if alone.

So, she waits. She cradles her stomach, letting the breeze from the open window whisper calming promises in her ear.  _He'll come,_  it tells her.  _The fates can't keep you apart, no, not ever._

Every nerve ending in her body is numbed with relief when she hears the door creak open. She can't bring herself to rise to meet him, but she watches him enter with a wide gaze.

His shoulders are hunched. His head is bowed. His eyes are boldly apologetic.

"Peeta," she whispers.

He crouches in front of her at the foot of the bed, steadying himself on his knees, his hands moving to her waist. She peers down at him, the moonlight ploughing pale crystals into his eyes, ringed slightly by pink. His fingers dig into the fabric of her nightgown.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says, his voice trembling.

She manages to wrap her arms around his shoulders just as he crumbles, his cheek pressing against her chest as he holds her with quivering insistence. Braiding her fingers in his hair, she kisses the top of his head. "It's okay, it's okay," she promises. It really isn't okay, but  _he_  isn't the one to blame. It's the system, always the system,  _never_  her golden prince.

"It's not," he chokes out. "I feel—I feel like I betrayed you."

When he nuzzles her swollen belly, she realizes he isn't just speaking to her.

She cradles him while he cradles her, as if every piece in their cosmic jigsaw puzzle is hopelessly misaligned, and squeezing the life back into each other is the only remedy.

"You didn't betray us. If anyone's the—the  _other woman_ , Peeta, it isn't Madge."

"But you're my family." He swallows hard. "I was yours first.  _Both_  of yours."

She notes how he's allocated the possession in their relationship, treating her like  _she's_  the princess, and he's nothing but a servant to her and the baby.

"Peeta—"

"Please, I don't want to talk about this any longer. I don't. I can't." He starts to crinkle up her nightgown, pushing it over her belly, exposing the bloated curve there. She feels something wet smear across her stomach as he presses his cheek to her skin. "I just want to be with you. I want to forget."

He tries – and she tries to help him try – but as soon as his hips are cradled between her thighs, they both realize this isn't going to work. So instead, she curls around him, holding his head to her chest, drowning him in her heartbeat and in her affection and praying it's enough.

* * *

"I can't go through this again," Peeta whispers, his eyes vacant and shoulders rigid.

He's sitting on top of the dryer, his knees parted just enough to frame her hips. She's cupping his stubbled cheeks.

"Peeta, it's barely been a month—"

"No," he barks. And then, startled and ashamed by his harshness, he tilts his forehead against hers. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't want—I'm not angry with you, love. Please know that."

She kisses him gently to prove her understanding.

After a month of "trying," the princess returned from the apothecary with nothing but detached apologies and more "doctor's orders." It crushed Peeta in an entirely new way.

Of course, Katniss knows it's been painful for Madge, too. The princess loves her husband enough to shoulder some of his pain; she must suffer from his reluctance, and from staying silent while he tries to finish quickly, and from pretending to fall asleep as he slips from the room to be with another woman. All for nothing. But this is what they must do. The kingdom needs the renewed bloodlines, and Peeta needs Katniss. Without either, both would be broken.

"Just—another month, Peeta," Katniss pleads, grimacing from the way her own words cleave away at her skin. "Give it another month, and maybe—"

But he's shaking his head furiously. "No one deserves this. You don't deserve how I'm treating you, Madge doesn't deserve being  _used_  like that, and… and the  _baby_ …" He tugs at his hair. "I'm hardly ready to father one child, let alone two! This situation, this  _entire_  situation is so twisted and wrong, and I—it's my fault, all my f—"

She senses his rapid deterioration just in time to stop him, firmly grasping his jaw in her hands.

"Peeta Mellark." Her eyes drill into his. She clenches her teeth, gripping him until he begins to deflate under her influence.

He lifts his palms to cup the back of her hands, their fingers tangling. He says nothing, and neither does she, but the quiet whisper of lips that ensues is more than enough.

* * *

After the royal family's supper, Madge pens herself in the third-floor library. Katniss is soon to follow.

When she lets herself in, she finds the woman curled up in one of the plush armchairs, her fountain of golden curls falling in front of her face, which is resting on her knees.

Katniss clears her throat.

"Your Highness?"

Madge starts at the sound, her chin flickering up. She quickly moves to wipe the silver sheen of tears from underneath her lower lid, forcing a twisted smile on her face.

"Oh. Hello, Katniss. Can I help you with something?"

Cautiously, Katniss begins to approach, her movements as slow as they'd be if she was advancing on a feral animal. Her hands rest on her rounded belly. She can see Madge's eyes flicker to the bump there before ashamedly finding Katniss's face, her already-wavering smile faltering even more.

"Princess Madge, if you'll allow it, I'd like to make a proposal." Her throat, dried and cracked, quivers under her attempt to swallow. "About… about the baby."

Her face pales, her brows knitting together, as if that last word has poisoned the air. "Is this Peeta's idea?"

Katniss shakes her head. "Peeta doesn't know that I've come to speak with you."

Madge's jaw hardens, her chin tilting up slightly. Her eyes beg Katniss to continue.

Her skin feels like it's been splintered with sheets of ice, cold breath jutting out in her lungs. She holds her stomach tighter, feeling a slight flutter underneath the flesh as if the baby is protesting what his or her mother has yet to say.

Katniss takes a deep breath.

"I want you and Peeta to raise my baby," she says, startled by the way her voice seems entirely detached from her body. "As your own."

* * *

When she tells Peeta of her agreement with Madge, he crumbles onto the bed. She tries to touch him, but he walls himself in, crying out.

" _No_."

"It's for the best, Peeta—"

"It's our baby.  _Ours._ "

Her palms lift, moving to brush his hair from his forehead, but he draws back.

"Peeta,  _please_!"

But he's shaking his head, tucking his knees into his chest like a child, and she hates herself for reducing him to this. She's hurt him too many times; this must be the last.

"Look," she begins, her tone thick and syrupy, sticking to all corners of the room in a swampy coating. "If she fakes a pregnancy now, by the time the baby is born, we can pass it off as being really,  _really_  premature—"

"No."

"—and keep him or her from the public eye, until he or she is old enough to dodge suspicion—"

" _No_."

"—and I can still take care of it, Peeta! Madge said I can be the head caregiver, and still help raise the baby—"

" _No!_ "

"—which will give it such a better life, don't you see? It won't be raised in poverty! It'll have access to food, and medicine, and you, Peeta! It'll be able to grow up knowing  _you_ are its father, and—"

He springs to his feet, his entire body shaking.

"This is  _your_  baby, Katniss! I—I can't force you to  _sacrifice_  your child for me! I wouldn't— _fuck_ , I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I knew that  _I_  was the reason your child was taken away from you!"

Silence throbs against each wall. Her skin digs into her bones.

Everything hurts, and at the same time, she goes entirely numb.

"Oh,  _Peeta_ ," she whispers as she stands, her voice diffused with compassion.

Finally,  _finally_ , he doesn't try to draw away from her when she reaches to touch him. Her arms find his back and shoulders, pulling him down, tucking his face in her warm neck.

"This was the only thing they couldn't touch," he chokes against her skin. "This baby, it was the only thing that wasn't theirs. I'm their pawn, you're their employee, this marriage is their parade… but the baby was ours. Only ours."

She feels something shimmer like butterfly wings in her stomach, pattering against his own abdomen. He must feel it, too, because he stiffens, his hands moving to cup her belly.

As his palms graze over her flesh, feeling the slight movement, his eyes shift.

And then, after several long moments of holding her and the baby:

"But I'm being selfish, aren't I? I'm only thinking about myself, and what I want, but—but you're right. About what's best for the baby. You're always right, Katniss."

She nuzzles her nose against the tender flesh below his jaw, her lips grazing the skin.

"You give me too much credit."

"I couldn't give you  _enough_."

She plays with the downy curls at the base of his neck. She breathes him in.

"I want our baby to have everything," she whispers. "A home, a reliable mother, and a loving father who isn't too heartsick to be  _there_ , you see? And good health, shelter, safety. If I have to sacrifice my title for that, for  _all_  of that… it's a sacrifice I'll have to make."

He gazes down at her as if she's made of gold, and also as if she's just snapped his heart in two. And maybe she has. It wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

The coils above her squeal in protest as Johanna flips on the mattress.

"I can't believe the Princess is having a kid. Already." She sighs. "Jesus."

Katniss's stomach is a crawling bed of acid bubbles. She rests her hands over her belly, trying to quiet the child.

They announced the "pregnancy" earlier today. Madge claimed to be two months along, putting her three months behind Katniss. This would mean that after the birth, Katniss would have to relinquish her baby to a select team of medical professionals, ones who were:

A) Responsible enough to keep the entire setup confidential

B) Capable of raising an infant for at least two months, or until Madge was mentally prepared to feign labor

C) Not Katniss, nor Peeta.

She won't have access to her child for two months. Right after it's born, the baby will be pronounced dead and then taken by the doctors who are slated to care for it outside the palace walls. For the first months of their infant's life, neither Peeta nor Katniss will be able to touch it, hold it, even see it.

But this is what they must do. It's what's best for them all – Katniss will be promoted to Head Caregiver, Peeta won't have to father a second child while tip-toeing around his first, and the baby will have access to everything he or she could ever need.

It's a hard pill to swallow, but nevertheless, it's the best remedy imaginable.

A long silence elapses before Katniss hears Johanna chuckle.

"It's gonna be one adorable little squirt, though."

Katniss's toes curl, her throat stringing tight. "Hmm?" she forces out, attempting to be conversational.

But this was the wrong choice. She should've just let it drop.

"Picture it," Johanna says. "All blue eyes, all blonde hair, fair skin. Storybook enough to make me want to vomit."

Katniss wants to vomit for a different reason.

_What if the child looks like her?_

* * *

Over the following months, Katniss's belly swells in chorus with Princess Madge's carefully-tailored pillow baby. The main difference (other than Katniss's head start) is that Madge is still able to glide gracefully through the castle while Katniss hobbles like a drunken elephant.

Peeta, of course, thinks she's adorable.

"You look like you have a cannonball shoved under your gown," he chuckles as he brushes his fingers over her hips, pressing her back against the washing machine. Their little romps in the laundry room have become increasingly difficult with the extra being lodged between their bodies, but that doesn't deter him.

Still, Katniss groans. "Feels like it, too." Her body tingles under his touch. "Good thing it's almost over."

His eyes crinkle in the corner as he smiles. "Nine days?"

"Eight, now," she corrects. "Although, who knows? If the kid takes after us, its timing will be horrific."

His nose skims the length of her jaw, depositing feather-light kisses on her neck. "And you're still sure you're okay with this?"

He's been asking her this every day. And, every day, her answer has remained the same.

"I have to be," she says.

She feels his fingers curl stiffly against her waist, his lips moving up to hers for a soft kiss. Possibly in gratitude, possibly in apology, or maybe even in surrender; she can't taste the difference.

Like always, she lets him kiss her breathless, gripping at her gown. Her chest tightens as she concedes, her own hands moving to his chest, flattening, gripping, flattening again…

And then she feels something jerk inside her abdomen.

Her lips rip away from his, jaw slack in the aftershock, eyes wide.

"Katniss?" he breathes, his voice twisting up with panic at the end.

Her gaze locks with his, a chuckle of dismissal preparing to pluck at her vocal cords, but then she feels it again. It's a mechanical jolt, swirling her belly with discomfort.

She buckles over.

* * *

She barely even gets to meet him.

His chubby body decides on an early – and painful – delivery. Thankfully, the team of doctors are already on standby; they're able to take her to a secured chamber, one with a bed and a nearby stool for Peeta. He holds her hand as she screams, then cries, and then screams even harder until there's another piercing shriek flooding the room to drown out her own.

They cut the umbilical cord, clean up his angry red body, and bring him to the side of the bed to show his parents.

They don't let her hold him. His eyes are scrunched, his skin tinged pink, hair matted in sun-colored clumps under the blanket. But they don't know what color his eyes are, because before he even opens them, he's taken away from his birthparents.

Peeta holds Katniss's shoulders, cupping the back of her head as she sobs into his neck. She feels shattered, her body torn and her heart trailing her newborn as he's smuggled from the castle. Her core throbs like one massive cavity swallowing itself, a tingling ache searing every edge and corner.

She's unsure of how she managed to fall in love with her son after under a minute of connection, but it's only after he's been ripped from her that she understands her devotion's magnitude. After carrying him for nine months, she was rewarded with thirty seconds of policed affection, and then it was over.

* * *

"This sucks," Johanna says, more emotion plugged into her tone than Katniss has ever heard from her.

But Katniss can't bring herself to uncurl her crinkled body, can't bring herself to speak. She's been lying in her bunk for two straight days, cold and empty and alone. Since the other maids think her baby didn't make it through the birth, they've left her to grieve, and she's thankful for every second. In some twisted way, it does feel like her child is dead. She just wants to hold him. Wants to kiss his rosy skin.

Johanna touches Katniss's shoulder before she leaves for the day. The gesture is awkward, but its intention isn't lost on her.

Soon, the bunker is quiet, grey air covering everything around her. She tries to steady her breathing and remember that it's only two more months. Two more months. Two more. Two more. The words align with her pulse.  _Two more. Two more._

The other maids have been gone for about twenty minutes when she hears the door creak, and she assumes it's Johanna or even another girl she shares the room with, coming back to retrieve a forgotten item. She expects there to be a rustle of sheets, then maybe a cough, and the scratching of footsteps on the ground, all drowned out by  _two more, two more._

But instead, she feels the mattress's coils groan underneath her as they dip to accommodate an extra body. She doesn't have to turn around to face him to know exactly who her visitor is by the swirling scent of cinnamon and honey. Thick arms rope around her, holding her in.

She starts sobbing at the feel of his lips on her neck.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says, his apology stemming more out of empathy than remorse. She can hear the pain in his voice, too, and realizes he also isn't doing well.

_Two more. Two more._

She snuggles her spine deeper into his chest, encouraging him to tighten his grip, and he concedes to her wordless plea. He holds her like a man would clench his heart as it came pouring from his chest, letting her cry and reminding her that it's okay to not be okay.

_Two more. Two more._

* * *

The entire palace seems to tremble with the news of Madge going into labor. It's been seven weeks since the delivery of Katniss's baby, meaning seven weeks of heartsickness, seven weeks of secrets, seven weeks of indefinite waiting.

Katniss is eating lunch with Johanna – a stale cheese sandwich – when she's approached by a man in a grey jumpsuit.

"Everdeen?" he grunts.

She can feel Johanna's eyes boring into her cheek as she stares up at the stranger.

His grey eyes are flashing. "The Princess is requesting a caregiver for her baby."

The stiff bread sticks in her throat, making her cough. "Y-yes. Okay."

She slaps the sandwich onto the table and looks to Johanna, whose gaze is knitted with suspicion.

"You? Why you?"

Katniss's jaw feels like putty. She remains silent.

Then, something in Johanna's gaze softens.

"Is it because—because of  _your_  baby?"

 _Yes_ , Katniss wants to yelp. It's a good excuse, saying they've selected the mother who lost her own child to help care for the Princess's. The justification isn't foolproof, but it'll suffice. It'll  _have_  to suffice.

She can only bring herself to nod, however, before standing up and trailing the man out of the dining center.

As they steal into a hall, darkness washing out the cobblestone, she hears him whisper, "You gotta be careful with this secret, girl."

"I know—I will," she sputters, trying to keep up. "How is he? The baby?"

"He's a fuckin' brick." The man wipes his nose as they round a corner. "Clearly too large for a newborn, so he'll need to be kept from the public eye for a little while."

Katniss feels a ghost of a smile string up her lips. Her heart hammers against her ribs.

"Is he here?"

"The Prince and Princess are sealed in the medical ward with him, yes." Anticipating Katniss's questions, he continues, "And he's doing very well. Eating, sleeping in healthy intervals, not too temperamental. Also looks enough like the Princess to reduce suspicion."

Her heart feels like a clump of lead. She breathes deeply.

"Thank you, uh—sir?"

He steals a quick glance backward before slinking into the stairwell.

"Haymitch Abernathy. Seeing as I'm the director of this operation, you should probably call me Dr. Abernathy. But I'm not one for professionalism, so Haymitch will do just dandy."

With a stiff nod, she follows him up to the medical ward.

She can hear hushed voices as they duck into the front office. A nurse in a white gown with blue-striped sleeves regards Katniss with buggy eyes, wide in something resembling shock, as if the young mother is missing an arm or bleeding from the ears.

"Oh. Miss—Miss Everdeen. Hello." She springs up from behind the counter. "Let me—I can take you to the—the prince."

Katniss remains silent as Haymitch passes her off hot-potato style to the nurse. Electricity weaves through her legs and urges her to hurry, as if her body's a magnet in her child's field, pulling her closer, closer, closer. But she holds herself back on the nurse's tail.

The girl takes her past the rigid blue curtains, past the cubicles with other patients, to the hall's end. A metal door splits her from the room and her family. Her blood hums in anticipation.

The nurse shoves a small key into the door. She turns the knob. She pushes it back, and yanks Katniss inside.

Static air fills up the room and presses at her skin, stilling her heartbeat. She feels disconnected from her body as she tries to gauge her surroundings too quickly, seeking out Peeta, seeking out her child, hoping everything will be pointing to them. Her breath catches. Her blood halts. Her lungs stiffen.

And then she hears a baby cooing.

Sitting on the edge of the made bed are Peeta and his wife, their focuses both pinned to the tiny bundle in his arms. A small smile is threaded over Madge's lips, while Peeta's grin is absolutely ridiculous, the elation not confining itself to his mouth as it floods his eyes, rosy cheeks, and puffed-out chest.

Behind her, the door slams. Both Madge and Peeta's eyes are drawn to her.

"Hey, hey, come meet him," Peeta murmurs. She can't feel her feet as she makes her way to the bedside. Possibly, she's floating. There's a spot for her at his hip, and she takes it, peering over his shoulder to gaze at the tiny bundle.

All she sees is sunlight.

Her throat sticks as she studies the tiny slope of his nose, the rounded cheeks, the yellow wisps of curly hair over his forehead.

The grey eyes.

 _Her_  grey eyes.

This is her child, Lord, this is her  _baby_.

"He's—he's perfect," she chokes out.  _My little sunbeam._

"Takes after his mother," Peeta whispers. And then his arms shift, gently depositing the baby in her grasp. The fabric feels like a cloud on her fingers, the weight of her child so unfamiliar and yet so  _right_. She tucks her son against her chest, feeling his warmth bleed into her core.

He peers up at his mother, eyes wide with innocence, and she decides then and there that she's never going to let any harm touch her baby.  _Peeta's_  baby.

And hell, does he  _look_  like Peeta. He's clearly adopted his father's frame, hair, and chubby fingers. Their son is his spitting image with her own irises and nose tossed in there – just enough for her to know that he's her own.

"What do you want to name him?"

She startles at the new voice; it takes her a few moments to realize it's come from Madge.

Katniss's eyes bug out.

"I—we can name him?"

"He's your baby," she says, sympathy softening the edges of her tone. "It's only fair, since I—I'm technically taking him from you."

She looks to Madge, whose expression is swallowed by remorse, then back to her child. Her fingers brush his cheek, the skin silky under her knuckle. He looks like he's glowing. Like sunlight.

Her lips quirk.

"Ray," she says. Again:  _My little sunbeam._

Peeta's arm curls around her shoulders. His own hand moves to cup the back of Ray's head, fingers grazing hers. She thought she'd feel anger in this moment, in this brief interlude between her being separated from the baby and handing him over to the royal family, but all she feels is warmth.

This isn't goodbye. Not at all.

* * *

He's just over a year old when it happens.

Katniss is in the courtyard, curled up on a bench as she watches Ray toddle around on his still-chubby legs. He routinely stumbles, rolling in the trimmed grass, but he'll pop right back up again like a true victor.

Now, under the tree, there's a butterfly grabbing his attention. It flutters through the threads of sunlight puncturing the leaves, its wings practically sparkling in the yellow glow. His plump fingers stretch for the creature, which is hopelessly out of reach, but the poor kid's depth perception leaves much to be desired, so he doesn't realize this.

Behind her, there's a squeal of hinges. Katniss turns to see Peeta slipping through the door to join her in the courtyard.

Heat flushes her chest and collar; the quad is paneled on all sides by long windows, giving any passerby the perfect view. Peeta being with her is risky enough, but here, in broad daylight, it's practically a suicide mission.

"Peeta?"

He smiles at her as he joins her on the bench, careful to keep plenty of distance between them. "I wanted to see you."

"You saw me this morning."

(Most mornings, he does. He comes by the nursery to distribute good-morning kisses to his son, and when Ray isn't looking, his son's mother.)

He shrugs, leaning back against the bench's armrest. "Couldn't help myself. I was walking down the hall and happened to see you two out here – what was I supposed to do?"

"Stick to protocol?"

He smirks. "Katniss, it's okay. It's not like we're ripping off each other's clothes. I, the Prince, am just enjoying a warm afternoon with my son while he's being supervised by his caregiver. No grounds for suspicion."

Katniss's shoulders slump, but the feeling of paranoia doesn't ebb. She doesn't suppose it ever will. But it's an attractive tradeoff, considering it allows her to see her two favorite boys every day.

She feels his fingers ghost over her knee, the action swift and discreet enough, but it still causes her to whip her head in his direction. He only grins at her, his face relaxed and bright.

She can't help but smile back; she loves seeing him happy. During the long months leading up to Ray's birth, she could've never predicted this outcome. It'd been such a dark era, in which she'd worried almost daily about losing both him and their child. With where they are now, however, those days are almost unrecognizable.

His eyes rake over her expression, the blue brilliant and eager.

"Do you think you can sing for us?"

Her hand flies to her chest automatically as if to verify that she still has lungs. She does.

"I don't know, Peeta—"

"C'mon, my little songbird." His grin widens. "Please?"

An obsession with her voice is one of the many things Peeta has passed down to their son. Ray refuses to go to sleep without a lullaby, and can often only be calmed down by her melodies. Madge tried, once, which ended in a disastrous round of sobs – since then, the routine has rested entirely in Katniss's hands. Blissfully so.

She leans back slightly, letting her lungs expand. Her throat tingles with anticipation, and she swallows hard.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow…_

It's a favorite of both boys, and she can feel all the pent-up tension rolling off Peeta's shoulders as he relaxes at her side. It only takes a couple of lyrics before Ray's attention is grabbed, too, his pudgy face turning in their direction. The butterfly is entirely forgotten.

He stumbles through the grass as he makes his way up to Katniss, silver eyes drowning in delight. She opens her arms to beckon him closer as she continues.

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow…_

Ray unleashes a delighted squeal as he falls into her hands, lips parting to reveal pink gums and all of two teeth. She lifts him into her lap, cradling him against her body as he peeps at her. As of yet, their communication is limited to her short sentences and his responding squawks – she anticipates his first words will happen soon, but for now, it's all senseless babbling.

_Here it is safe, here it is warm…_

His hands press at her cheeks, breaking her song into fragmented giggles. Peeta slips his hand over Ray's chubby belly, holding him back so that his son doesn't smother Katniss as he lets out an amused chuckle. Katniss would join in, but her son's fingers are too busy prying into her teeth.

"I can't sing with your fist in my mouth, my little sunbeam."

She uses the nickname partially for her son, and partially for Peeta. She knows he loves it when she calls Ray that.

His little songbird and their little sunbeam.

In return, the child squeals, his gums smacking together. He babbles out something unintelligible, and Katniss works around Peeta's palm to tickle Ray's belly.

"What was that, little guy?"

He gabs again, only two syllables this time, and Katniss laughs.

"Hmm?"

Her hand grazes Peeta's as she wraps her arms around his body, nuzzling his nose. Typically, she tries to abstain from so much physical affection, but sometimes, she just can't help it.

Ray's eyes gleam as he beams up at Katniss. This time, the two syllables are finally distinct.

"Mama," he giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket, if you want to be friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Rendez-vous with me on tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.


End file.
